Growing Evergreens
by Aisukuri-Mu Studio
Summary: .:Collab:. A collection of one-shots centering around the Guardians. Story 14: In which Jack and North get in a timely argument on Father's Day and must now pick up the pieces.
1. Love Lost

_1. Lost Love_

Jack could never quite get over how cozy Santoff Clausen was. It wasn't that it wasn't comfortable or welcoming; it was just that Jack felt _too_ much so when he visited. North welcomed him with wide, open arms, insisting on greeting him with the biggest hug Jack ever received (and it seemed like they got bigger and longer each time). Cookies and gingerbread and treats of all sorts would be thrust upon him, though he took them readily and willingly. The yetis would roll their eyes but continue about their work. They didn't seem to mind Jack all that much, even when he persisted in interrupting them.

Of course, Phil was the exception to that. Phil would chase him to the ends of the North Pole and back again when he caught Jack interfering. It was all in good fun, though; North would laugh with much vigor when Jack retold his fierce and narrow escape. In a way, North was like a father to Jack.

Except Jack already had a father. And so, after realizing just how his relationship with the man was developing, Jack would pull his hood over his downtrodden eyes and allow the wind to take him to somewhere that would lift his spirits, leaving his spoils behind him.

Sometimes Jack found himself in the Warren, annoying the pooka during his on-season and watching him design elaborate egg murals during his off. He'd nab one of Bunny's carrots, or two or three if he was lucky. Other times Jack would be in Tooth's Palace, playing with the tiny, love-struck fairies, despite how busy they were, or he'd converse with Tooth about his latest ice creations while she dogged between him and her duties. The fairies enjoyed cheese and raisins, to Jack's surprise – and they refused to let him leave until he'd eaten a good lot of it.

But in both places, though they were equally welcoming, Jack felt he was intruding. So, more often than not, he would slip away once more with the wind, not even bothering to say good-bye. He figured that they were busy enough without his presence.

Jack did not know if Sandy had a home where he rested, or a headquarters where he stayed when he was not out in the field, but the Sandman made a point to find him each night. Jack stayed up just to see him work in Burgess. He'd always thought that his sand was beautiful, each creation unique to each child they visited. It was truly awesome to watch from afar.

And in that right Jack considered himself lucky to be able to sit right next to the little man as he weaved his magic across the town. Though Sandy did not speak and made symbols only slightly more often, Jack found his mere presence a comfort and a solace.

But, of course, in this situation Jack also felt as though he were intruding. He felt that in his heart, it was wrong to watch something so magical and wondrous from so close for so long. He always bade the man farewell before he'd completed his work in the town, and in response Sandy made sure to bring Jack good dreams as well.

Jack never felt as if he had a home. The lake was probably the closest thing to it – but he had no bed to sleep upon, no large and burly (or small and cutesy) companions to keep his company, not even a place to dine. Of course, the lake could not be his home, even if it did have such things; it still reminded him strongly of his death and his memories of life, and so Jack would not be able to take staying there for very long.

Besides, Jack was quite busy during his season, so much so that he might stay away for nights or even weeks or months. Everywhere needed a good frost, he thought, and everyone loved a good snow day.

(Though, to Jack's surprise, the Sandman managed to find him no matter what nook or cranny of the world he decided to crash in. The guy deserved some props for that.)

But one night, Sandy didn't come. It confused Jack, as he stood in Burgess with only the stars and the moon for company, staring at the horizon as he munched on whatever food he'd managed to gather that day. Where was he? What was taking him so long? He was usually here by now—

And then, he saw it. Not the Sandman, no, but the unnatural aurora as it stretched across the sky. He stared at it, unsure for only a moment – but the next the wind swept him into the air, escorting him to the North Pole.

At this moment, the Winter Spirit was the epitome of solemnity. Snowballs and fun times would have to wait. What if this was about Pitch? Had the Nightmare King returned? The thought sent shivers down Jack's spine – and it took a lot to do that. Though Jack had loathed the man, he'd also sympathized with and pitied him. It had made Pitch a far more challenging enemy than Jack would care to admit.

When Jack arrived at North's workshop, he could feel the tension in the air. Just standing outside the door filled him with a sense of foreboding. He wasn't quite sure what exactly it was that he was dreading, but whatever the case Jack did not knock on the door or ring its old-fashioned doorbell. Instead, Jack decided it might be best to take an old path inside, one of the many routes he'd attempted when he was forbidden from entering the place.

The wind pushed open the windows of one of the guest rooms for him; Jack felt a rush of gratitude toward the spirit, and nodded once. It let out a small, whispered moan, before it left, knowing it would be more a hindrance than a companion when on a mission that required stealth.

Jack opened the door just a crack. Peering out, he saw no one – not even a yeti, to his surprise – and he slipped through, closing it shut behind him as quiet as a mouse. Not a soul in sight. He listened, straining his ears, but Jack couldn't hear the sound of the yetis working, not the bang of a hammer or a single footstep. He didn't even hear the jingle of an elf's hat as it tumbled about.

Oh, yeah. Something was wrong, all right. Jack held his staff up as if it were a lance, and as his bare feet padded against the carpeted, wood floor, frost followed him.

He made his way toward the only place he could think they all would be – the Globe, which had served as a meeting place during the conflict with Pitch. Knowing that the lift would be far too noisy, he decided not to call it back up. Instead he created a ladder out of frost, growing it the further down he went.

"I'm still confused!" Jack heard a thick Australian accent shouting at the top of its lungs. "How does this man, who ain't even on our _side_, claim to know Jack better than we do?!"

Jack's heart sank into his stomach as he landed softly on the top of the lift. Oh, no, he thought to himself. This was about _him_.

"I've told you, Bunny," North was saying, but Jack couldn't bear to turn around – they hadn't noticed him yet, and he was still facing the ladder. "Pitch _is_ fear. Pitch knows all fear. Even Jack's."

"Right," Tooth said, though she sounded suspicious. "But how do we know he isn't lying to try to get our guard down? Maybe what he wanted to do was gather us all in one place."

His face felt hot, and his head pounded. What did Pitch know? What had Pitch said to them? They wouldn't… North wouldn't listen to whatever Pitch said about him, would he?

"But _think_," North urged them, and Jack could almost see the man's arms moving emphatically as his voice did. "Jack has no kitchen to make food, Jack has no way to grow his own. It is good – what is word – it is good way to think that he has no other way to live. When one lives like that…"

_They know_. Suddenly Jack felt his stomach flip, and with it came such an intense wave of nausea that he felt to his knees, covering his mouth in an effort to keep down what little food he'd eaten that day. They know, they _know_, and they'll kick him out, they'll make him an ex-Guardian for doing this to the children—

"Thank you, North." A familiar voice rang throughout the room, cutting through Jack's thoughts like a steak knife through fat; it was jagged, and it drained his attention to it more than called it. The wind caught in his throat, and after a moment of hesitation – struggling to comprehend who its owner was – but now he stood, quick in fright but weak from nausea, and he turned toward the Globe.

There, Pitch stood among his friends, staring straight at Jack.

"But why don't you all discover the truth firsthand?"

Jack's heart stopped. The Guardians, too, turned, following Pitch's gaze. Though it hurt him to, Jack met North's gaze, the same shade of blue as his own, and his heart sank – but it was beating again now.

Pitch had sensed his fear, Jack realized suddenly; Pitch had felt the sudden twist of his gut. That had given him away.

"Jack," North began.

Jack had to run. Jack stumbled backwards, into the wall, feeling cornered only for a split second – and then he remembered the ladder.

Damn the wind for leaving him.

He began to climb quickly, blindly, feeling it melt beneath his grip – he hadn't intended it to last long, but he couldn't afford the concentration to keep it intact – and he ignored the calls of the Guardians. Pitch had told them _something_, though Jack didn't know what exactly, and he didn't even know how Pitch was still alive after they'd utterly obliterated him—

Just as Jack made it to the top, he heard the lift beginning to activate. Agh, _nuts_, he'd forgotten about that godforsaken thing! Whatever – it wasn't going to be enough to stop him! He threw all of his strength into dashing through the yetis' workshop.

When Tooth landed in front of him, he nearly crashed into her, yelping and screeching to a stop, friction succeeding moments before impact. He couldn't bring himself to look at her face, and instead looked anywhere but, searching for an alternate method of escape.

He could hear Bunnymund, North, and the Sandman as they approached from behind – and Pitch was likely among them. Jack closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and waited for reproach.

It never came.

Before Jack could completely comprehend what was happening, Tooth had wrapped her arms around him tightly. His eyes flashed open at the contact, and his first instinct was to tell her to _stop_, she was going to _freeze_ if she stayed this close for too long—

But then Bunny placed a firm paw on his shoulder, and North picked all three of them up at once, squishing them into the biggest hug Jack had received yet. He turned and looked at each of them individually, confused beyond belief, and he glanced over at the Sandman, who stood next to Pitch.

Sandy winked. Pitch looked over the scene with an emotion Jack was unsure of. It wasn't loathing, or disdain, or conceit. It was something… that Jack couldn't place. What…

Was it _pity?_

Something flared in Jack's stomach, something fierce and ice cold as he glanced back at his companions. "Are you all _pitying_ me?" he demanded, shaking. The last thing he needed was to be insulted like _this!_

But North shook his head. "No, Jack," he assured, a small, solemn smile on his face. "We worry about you. Come to Santoff Clausen anytime you are hungry."

"Or to the Tooth Palace!" Tooth added hurriedly, almost cutting off the Russian. "Really, we have lots of good foods, and they won't give you cavities like North's sweets will! You'll have your fill, I promise!"

"I got tons o' carrots at the Warren, anyway," Bunnymund said off-handedly, though he had an odd sort of half-smile on his face. "Take some whenever you like."

"And we will always be glad to house you," North said as almost an afterthought. "Our homes are always open. _All_ of ours."

Once again Jack examined each of their faces individually. Each of them looked sincere – Sandy grinned and gave him a thumbs-up, created out of his dreamsand. Pitch had averted his gaze, but he did not object.

"Wait." Jack winced, ran a hand through his hair. "Wait, hang on, slow down for a second. What is Pitch…"

"How do you think they found out?" Pitch scoffed, his voice filled with the same loathing, disdain and conceit Jack still didn't see on his face. "I am so aware of fear that it eats away at me, boy; yours is no different. When I felt your fear of starvation – well, there had to be a reason behind that."

North nodded, walking over and putting a hand on Pitch's shoulder. "And for coming to me, we all thank you," he said, far more serious than Jack had ever seen him. "I wish I could make up to you."

Pitch scoffed again, his nose wrinkled in disgust. "Oh, please. Don't say that as if you hadn't thought I was _human_. I don't like the idea of the Winter Spirit biting the dust, and all of you weren't taking your jobs as 'Guardians' _seriously_. I just did what I had to do."

Then he detached himself from North, brushing himself off. "If any of these _morons_ fail you again, Jack, you may step into my lair with the same offering." Pitch scowled. "But only then. Understand?"

And Jack did. He could feel how Pitch, whose narcissism prevented him from showing any more of his concern, was not saying it lightly.

Jack had never felt more loved, in all that he could remember. His eyes began to water, the tears freezing as they always did, and he let out a small laugh.

"Yeah. I understand."

The Guardians all felt a surge of warmth; North swung an arm around Jack and led him to the kitchen, where the yetis and elves had been preparing one of North's largest feasts. They all followed, happier than they had been in years – for they were now able to make up for the years and years of their ignorance.

Except, of course, for the Nightmare King, who watched them all leave. Only the Sandman turned, wondering what kept him, but by then it was too late; Pitch had left, becoming one with the shadows, perhaps never to appear again.

Jack inquired later, between mouthfuls of cranberry sauce and stuffed turkey, where exactly the man had gone. No one knew the answer, but Sandman explained to him that Pitch was just as busy as they all were.

There was much fear in the world, after all – much fear that Pitch was to ensure the children learned from. Just as Jack had.

And that answer had lifted Jack's heart. Pitch was no longer a villain. Unpleasant, perhaps, but not a villain.

The fact that Pitch, too, had overcome his fears, left Jack feeling full and warm long after the meal had ended.

* * *

**Elsa's Note:** This started out as "ohh I'm going to make a fic about North and Jack oh yes it will be beautiful fatherly-sonly love oh oh _yes_". And … it ended up as "Pitch is actually a good guy don't let his kuudere outside fool you".

I don't know. I really don't. But I think it turned out decent nonetheless! QAQ; So please remember: all reviews are appreciated! (Also, this will be updated frequently, so check back with us often!)


	2. Home Team

_2. Home Team_

It was a joke at first. Jack hadn't meant it at all, really—just mentioned it in passing while they were all gathered at the North Pole for a very informal meeting. After all, who would _seriously _consider building an entire tower/fort/bunker/whatever for all of the Guardians to live in together? Honestly—as if they could actually survive one another long enough to live in the same building?

Apparently, his newfound friends thought they could.

"Ohhhhhh, this is so exciting!" Tooth's feather-scales ruffled up in glee as she clenched her fists tight to her chest with joy. She hovered over North's worktable, where their amateur sketches were laid out in white lines on blue paper, all vast and imaginable with several floors and varying room layouts. Several scribbles of words lined the margins; notes of ideas that would come to being very soon. "We _have _to make it elaborate. Mosaics of every color—"

Bunnymund was humming, tapping his foot in thought. He nodded in harmony. "—I like the color ideas—"

"—and lots of space to fly around in, too. Large hallways," the toothfairy added with enthusiastic nodding from her companions, who buzzed around her with the same exuberance she emitted as brightly as her plume. "Oh! And an entire chamber for the teeth gallery—and my fairies—that will probably take up an entire floor or two, actually…"

Sandy frowned, troubled. The math was circulating in his head, swirling and bright like the sand he encompassed; didn't they realize how big this building was going to have to be…?

But North didn't seem to mind, hunched over as he was, continuously sketching, erasing, and scribbling in details and side-notes the more Tooth rambled on. "Each, we need floor for work. So that make…" Pausing momentarily, he straightened up, counted the members present, and then bended over again. "…five floors."

"We'll need more than that, mate," Bunny responded, idling closer. "Think about it. If we each have a floor to work on, we still need places to sleep."

North brightened, nodding. Deftly, he flipped the pencil over and scraped away the ceiling he had just drawn. "More floors, then!" Grinning, he straightened again. "How many for sleep?"

It was at that point Jack decided he had enough. Swinging his hands widely, he stepped forward into the huddle. "Whoa, wait, wait, wait—time out." At the curious faces that peered towards him, he placed his hands on either side of North's drawings, bracing himself for any answer he might receive. (Because these people were just…unpredictable. An endearing, yet patience-wearing quality. He knew that well enough now.) "Are you guys seriously thinking about _sleeping under the same roof_?"

Silence for a pure, unabashed moment.

Then Bunny scrunched up his face as if he suddenly remembered what that would exactly entail; Sandy seemed to seriously think about it. But it was North and Tooth who looked at him innocently, blinking with absolutely no doubts in their minds.

"Yeah…" Tooth finally responded. She tilted her head to the side, and almost comically, her fairies mimicked the motion. "Why not?"

Jack didn't quite know if it was wise to share his thoughts, so he felt himself fall quiet. Why indeed, not?

Oh, he could think of plenty of reasons.

One being because _hello_; he'd been living alone for over three hundred years, now. And if his current rocky friendship with Bunnymund was anything to account for it—his social skills weren't the absolute best. He was prickly at times—didn't know boundaries. Only recently had he finally gotten friends—real, _good_ friends. Friends he just didn't want to lose because they had decided to all live together, and he would somehow end up pushing away.

Besides—only recently had they discovered he needed food, and they were all too eager to offer him their kitchens.

Now they wanted him to _live with them_?

(_How long, then, before the welcome mat runs out? _some part of him asked.)

Jack settled for shaking his head and leaning back, hands falling to his sides. "I just…" He cleared his throat awkwardly. "…I'm just not so sure it's the best idea. Y'know?"

Bunny looked like he was about to speak up, but North beat him to it, erupting with loud and boisterous confidence that Jack wished he shared. "Nonsense! It is excellent idea! We will be celebrating best, happiest holidays since world first began!"

Tooth nodded enthusiastically. "North's right, Jack! It will be great! We'll have so much fun!"

And in the end, Bunny just shrugged, made some comments about what he'd prefer for his new "Warren" and then left. Sandy also made some requests, pointing and signaling his wishes with his sand-structures, although his eyes kept flittering to their newest guardian every time he did so. Whatever he found there, though, seemed to keep him somewhat satisfied, so with a nod and wave, he then left to begin his duties in Eastern Europe. It was only Tooth and North who remained behind with their winter spirit friend in the room, talking and babbling about their layout plans with such excitement, Jack knew anything he said by this point wouldn't delay anything.

So why, when he was finally, after all this time, getting a real _home_, did he feel so much dread?

* * *

The tower/castle/fort/whatever—it was big, and elaborate, that was all Jack knew; added onto the already-elaborate and enormous Santoff Clausen—could be nowhere else than the North Pole. North himself could never leave—the legends were what the legends always would be—and so with no real ties to their own original homes, the other Guardians found themselves packing and making the trek back to North just a short two weeks after their plans had been finalized.

The Yetis worked on it endlessly, North had said. They even risked falling behind on Christmas productions—even though it was mid-February—in order to get the project done as quickly as possible.

And Jack…Jack didn't know what to think.

He sat for a long time on the ice-pond he called home, knees pulled loosely to his chest, arms draped over them, and entire mind racked in thought.

_Why does this bother me so much?_

He wasn't sure why, but it made him almost not want to go at all. It almost made him stay where he was, turn tail, and just decide to become invisible again.

But could he really go back to that…?

No. Jack signed. No, he really couldn't.

_Nuts._

* * *

Jack supposed he should have had foresight to pretend like he had packed something, but when he showed up on the doorstep of their—_his_—new home with nothing but the clothes on his back and his staff, he wasn't prepared for the other Guardian's questions and shock.

"Oh, that's right!" Tooth sympathized. "You—oh—Jack, do you really have nothing?"

Jack shuffled on the spot, not particularly liking the pitying glances he was receiving. "I…I wouldn't call it _nothing_…"

"Balakirev!" North silenced. "Why we not move in sooner?" Shaking his head to dismiss the thought—after all, there could be nothing done for the past—the Guardian of Wonder marched over and patted his shoulder, guiding him inside the lobby of Santoff Clausen. "You are Guardian, now. Now, you are treated same as us."

Jack swallowed, vainly trying to kick out his feet and stop their progression. He laughed nervously. "U-um—but—"

"—that mean, you get everything. Access to kitchen, access to tools, access to toys, TV—"

"—we have a TV?—" That was news to him.

"—yes! TV!" Laughing and smiling, North finally let them come to a stop at the elevator—elevator? Was that new? Or did North always have that? In the rush of movement, Jack couldn't remember—herding them inside even as he called to the others outside of it. "Come! Quick! We take grand tour!"

Tooth squealed in delight, zooming over; Bunny and Sandy made their way with varying ranges of excitement.

And Jack was still trying to discern why he felt like the only one who _wasn't excited _about this.

* * *

The bottom four floors were Santoff Clausen, as it had always been. Above that, they discovered—five and six were Bunny's new Warren and home as well. It was large, elaborate, and Jack himself had to admit that it was almost a startling _exact _replica of the original Warren, complete with the Warren egg statues and little egg critters as well.

Bunnymund was ecstatic.

"Blimey!" he muttered, awed as he searched around. He laughed, dazed, gazing at the ceiling which somehow, looked like an endless, cloudless blue sky. "Am I gonna forget I'm in the Artic…"

North seemed pleased. Clapping his hands together, he rubbed them with anxiety as he neared. "It be like you want?"

"Yeah," Bunny laughed—and actually laughed so heartily, that Jack had to admit; it sounded nice. Clasping his paw on North's forearm, the pooka nodded eagerly. "It's _exactly _what I wanted. Reminds me just of home!"

"Good!" North grinned. "Good; then we be off to next floors! Tooth, you are next!"

Tooth could hardly contain herself, flight movements erratic as she buzzed back towards the elevator waiting for them. Jack followed with Sandy at his side, grinning airily.

It wasn't until the doors closed behind them that Jack suddenly realized—_Oh. Wait._

…_I didn't tell them what I wanted _my _room to be like._

* * *

Tooth had another two floors all to herself—seven and eight—and like Bunnymund's, it was so strikingly similar to her own home.

Except, of course, her original palace had been nearly as big as Santoff Clausen was, so an exact replica would have been too large. Instead, while modeled in the same art design—bright, colorful, airy and nearly Arabian in architecture—it housed a smaller tooth gallery in the middle of the two floors, but big enough, North assured her, to carry all of the children's teeth in the world—and more.

"And off to the side walls are little bunk-beds for my fairies! Oh!" Tooth tried to be everywhere at once, flitting this way and that as she and her fairies examined their new home. "This is all so cute! I just—" Laughing with delight as she saw the doorway to her own room, she peered inside.

"—And my window shows me the landscape I saw from my old room! Oh, North!"

The large man was hardly surprised when, in the next second, he was bombarded with feathers and hugs from not only Tooth, but also her numerous little fairies.

It made Jack smile.

_You just can't stop giving, can you, North?_

Jack felt a tug on his wrist, and looked down to see Sandy grinning at him with a question mark above his head. The winter spirit—Guardian of Fun—smiled and shook his head. "I'm fine—how about you?"

The question mark changed to a smiley face and Jack chuckled. "Yeah. Me, too."

* * *

By the time North wriggled himself free of the loving and all of them were back in the elevator, ready to view Sandy's floor—number nine—Jack was beginning to get nervous. It wasn't like he worried that there would be a room or floor for him; clearly, there was a floor ten; he could see the white snowball-button gleaming at him, leering and mysterious.

In one sense, it held the future. It held his new home—his new surroundings. Where he would _live _from now on.

And Jack could hardly imagine what it would be like.

Would there be a bed? A real bed—a bed finally his? Would he have…what would he have? A desk? Bookcase? Couch? What did normal people have in their rooms? What did Jaime have?

Jack could hardly remember at the moment.

But when the doors opened to Sandy's room, Jack forgot trying to take note of all the essentials that were there. He was simply stunned.

It struck him that he hadn't ever seen Sandy's original home. Out of all the other Guardians—that was the one that had remained a mystery. (And did he even have a home, some part of him wondered? Or was he like Jack, taking home in a countryside—in some small piece of nature that was too dear to be parted with?)

But now, it probably didn't matter what Sandy's home had originally been like.

This—this masterpiece of ultimate craftsmanship—an absolute palace of glittering gold and crystal—shimmering and shifting—with an hour-glass in the center—_this, _Jack couldn't help but think, _is a palace. Sandy's new palace—if he didn't have one before._

And Sandy couldn't stop smiling.

Tooth cleared her throat tenderly, placing a hand on North's shoulder as she spoke. "Sandy…North and I thought you should get a bit more than what you said you wanted." For some reason, after she said that, her eyes flickered towards Jack (who couldn't help but be confused) before she refocused her gaze on the noble Guardian of Dreams, who listened to her with unabashed awe. "So, we decided to make it a bit more…exceptional. This room is adapted to change however you want it to, to fit whatever mood or idea you may have."

North nodded excitedly, grinning from ear to ear. "After all, we had thought, 'For the dream-giver, what could be a better gift than all of _his _dreams come true?'"

Jack didn't blame Sandy when he, with almost uncharacteristic joy and love, leaped forward to embrace his two fellow Guardians with as much tender affection his little arms could bestow. It was probably the most vulnerable, since the moment when the dark spear had pierced his back, that he had seen the giver of dreams.

And above his head, over and over again, traced the words in elegant cursive—probably the first words Jack had ever seen Sandy actually put into letters—a heartfelt, _Thank you, thank you, thank you._

* * *

"Ready to see yours, mate?"

Jack scowled at Bunnymund, who had joined them back on Sandy's floor soon after the hug-fest was over, while trying to reign in his bucking heart. Piled in they were, back into the elevator, ready for the final stop on their tour: Floor Ten.

Jack's floor.

_My floor. Mine._

Swallowing and shrugging in one, trying to act nonchalant (although he was painfully aware that the other Guardians saw through that with sharp clarity), he crossed his arms in front of his chest, hand clinging to his staff so hard, his skin paled to blinding white.

"Yeah. Whatever."

Bunny just grinned knowingly—_annoyingly_—and pressed the button.

It was almost like slow-motion. The elevator wouldn't get there fast enough—and at the same time—Jack was almost inwardly begging it to slow-down. _Slow-down, slow-down, so I still have time to process this; so I can still tell myself to not be disappointed when it's not as cool as everyone else's rooms—when I see it's just the barest essentials, and no cool designs, because I just didn't tell them what I wanted—_

—_ding. _

Jack snapped his eyes shut, muscles pulled taut, and there was silence for a still, breathless moment as the doors opened to the tenth floor, and nobody moved.

It felt like an eternity, stretching onwards and onwards until finally Tooth was finally the one to ask softly, "…Jack…? Don't you want to see…?"

He waited—what should he say? What could he say? Why was he so afraid?—before he found himself, body moving almost of its own accord, shaking his head in a tremulous, tiny 'no.' His hands, crossed over his chest, clenched tighter and almost hugged his stomach.

Bunny sighed. "Now you're just being ridiculous—"

Sand shifted; a response. Jack could feel a gentle, thin hand on his shoulder—Tooth's—and her voice nearby his ear, muttering, "Jack…Jack, honey, what's wrong?"

Jack swallowed. He thought about answering that—he really did—but in the end, it was too much. Left him too vulnerable, too exposed, and so he found himself violently, more quickly this time, shaking his head again.

"There is no need to be afraid, Jack." North this time, soft and kind. Warm. Always warm. "We want you to see what we made for you."

A hesitant, shaky sigh. "…I thought the Yetis made this…"

North chuckled, deep and rumbling. "Well, they built building, yes, but, we thought you should have a little…_more._ So, we came together and built it; the end result? A little something from each of us, for our newest Guardian. It was Sandy's idea."

A home-made room.

Made by them.

For him.

Jack could hardly speak. Swallowing, trying to re-circulate his saliva, he muttered, "…it's not booby-trapped, is it?"

North laughed and Tooth responded, "No." Sliding her arm then around his shoulders, Jack felt her push him forward a bit, and walked with trepidation off the elevator and into the new room. _My new room. My new home. Mine. Mine. All mine._

_My own._

Tooth brought them to a stop.

"Now…" she breathed, so close and so excited. "…open your eyes."

Jack did.

And could hardly breathe.

It was chilly in there—but perfect. Just the right temperature, enough so he could see his breath, and enough so that the dark trees around the frozen lake in the center were shimmering with ice crystals—_beautiful, beautiful_—and there was snow. Snow and cliff walls—and oh, was he really in Santoff Clausen? Or was he still in Burgess? The entire room was so big—so huge! He had tons of room to fly around and touch the reaching trees to add his own personal finesse. And—

That was when he looked up.

"Pure glass," Bunnymund muttered, walking up to his side. He shivered, snow—real snow? Artificial?—clinging to his fur in small tufts. "When you turn the lights off, you'll be able to see the stars."

_Just like home._

_Just like home._

_No—no, this _is _home._

_But better._

Apparently, his expression was enough to make Bunny grin and then nudge him in the side, off towards a doorway in the left that looked suspiciously like the opening to a small hut, or wooden-cabin.

Without thought, Jack bolted for it, too eager to see what was there that he could hardly contain it.

And when he saw what was inside, he stopped.

Chuckling, North neared and placed a large hand on the boy's thin shoulder, gesturing to the walls on the inside of the cabin with amusement and gusto. "I stretched truth. This is…what I mean by home-made. This, we made for you." With a bright smile and excited crouch, he pointed towards the bedside table and lamp—which was made in the fashion of a snowglobe, with what looked like replicas of the Guardians inside, somehow glowing enough to light the entire cabin with a semblance of warmth—and even the mobile of snowflakes above the bed in the corner. "Those be my touches."

Grabbing Jack from the Guardian of Wonder, Bunnymund directed him towards the desk, which looked strangely Austrailian in design. "And I know we don't get along _that _often, but I thought I'd throw in my own gift to ya as well."

Tooth was next, suddenly pulling him away and gesturing towards all the artwork hung on the walls—various in sizes and artistic talents. "My fairies and I decided we could add a bit of color for you, so we each did our own little picture or painting." Giggling, she clasped her hands together. "We hope you like them—Baby Tooth's is the one right above your bed. She wouldn't have it put anywhere else."

Jack could hardly form words, he was at a loss. When Sandy finally tugged on his hand and lead him towards the bed, he noticed that the covers were a beautiful quilt, seemingly strung together by golden strands and patterned with various snowflakes and swirls, backdropped by a violet-blue night sky. The pillow, too, was covered in a gold sheet—and the bed-posts were not made of wood, but of a beautiful ice sculpture, jagged and yet sturdy.

Jack decided it was the most beautiful place to call home.

"…you made this…" he muttered, breathless. "…you all made this…for _me_…?"

"Yep!" Tooth grinned, nodding. Her hands were clasped together again, almost as if it would keep her from wringing them in her anxiety. In the following silence, she nervously buzzed closer. "Do you…do you like it?"

Jack touched the quilt with reverence.

"…I love it…"

No one mentioned how his voice broke somewhere in between.

* * *

The greatest part, Jack decided, about having the sky open to him again, able to see from his "living room," was the fact that he could see the Man in the Moon again at certain times of the night.

Like this night, his first night in his new home, spent lying on his back in the middle of the lake, quilt and pillow from his new bed with him, and Guardians-Snowglobe at his side, glowing in the mystical twilight. From all around him, Jack could hear the various snores or sleep murmurs of his friends—all, also camped out in his living room—in what had been a spontaneous effort for a sleepover that ended far sooner than Jack thought it should have. (Because Jaime and his friends always seemed to be able to stay up until midnight, as sleepovers, he thought, were supposed to, but whatever.)

It didn't really matter.

What mattered, actually, was the stubborn warmth in his chest, large, growing, and completely eradicating all the fear he had had earlier of his new home.

_They're not going to kick me out, _he began to realize.

_They're letting me stay._

_They built me my own room._

…_they want me._

Jack could hardly, out-loud tell the Man in the Moon, "Thank you." Not, at least, with everyone that he was so grateful for so close and so liable to waken should he speak.

But he hoped that the smile he wore on his face as he fell to slumber—the largest he had worn in centuries—would be enough for the Man to see it, even from so many miles away.

* * *

_"Everybody has a **home team**: It's the people you call when you get a flat tire or when something terrible happens. It's the people who, near or far, know everything that's wrong with you and love you anyways. These are the ones who tell you their secrets, who get themselves a glass of water without asking when they're at your house. These are the people who cry when you cry. These are your people, your middle-of-the-night, no-matter-what people._"

-Shauna Niequist

* * *

**Crystal's Notes: **Well. 8D When Elsa and I first discussed doing oneshot collabs, and we tossed about the idea of having an "Avengers-Tower-Guardian-Style" kind of thing for all our Guardians to live in, in this mini-verse, I didn't expect for it to get this long. 8D Haha...ha.

This is my first venture into the RotG world, so forgive me! ;A; I've only seen the movie once, but I'm still rather fond of it. Elsa got me on it. So...yeah.

In other news, this collab series of oneshots is my 35th story! ;A; Like. What? I know 35's not that huge of a number, but I took the time the other day to count all of my works on , both on my old account and this one, and was shocked by the number. Thirty-freakin'-five, man. Have I no life? Wasting away, writing words about universes already imagined? ;A;

Not that I'm mourning my 35th work. 8D I'm actually seriously excited. I just...I guess I'm shocked.

Next year will mark my tenth anniversary on .

...honestly. Time flies. I feel so _old. _

Aside from me-I hope you all enjoyed! 8D Thank you for reading, and your reviews, favorites, follows, anything, are SERIOUSLY APPRECIATED! ;A; So truly and honestly treasured, that you have no idea.

Have a blessed, blessed day!


	3. Between You and Me

_3. Between You and Me_

Jack had intended, upon his arrival at Santoff Claussen, to head to his floor without pause. It had been an exhausting day, as summer always was – he'd had to cross the Equator to reach most of the countries that received anything resembling snow. Crossing it on the return trip was almost painful.

Only one thing could have torn Jack from the prospect of his glorious winter wonderland: Curiosity.

Bunny was tucked into a corner of the entryway of the first floor when Jack entered, rummaging through a large cardboard box labeled with Russian lettering. Jack raised an eyebrow at the sight – how peculiar, for the pooka to be so mentally involved that he hadn't noticed the door thud as Jack closed it.

Jack grinned and walked over, keeping his steps light and soft. How odd, how _exciting!_ When he was close enough Jack balanced himself upon his staff, peering over Bunny's ears. What was he looking for, inside a box of junk?

From his perch, Jack could see a blueprint set on a table to the right of the box. Jack squinted, unable to lean in for risk of being caught. What in the world… It didn't look like anything Jack had ever seen.

…Well. Jack wasn't going to get any answers from his meager spying skills, it seemed. He bit back a snicker, the anticipation nearly killing him as he struggled to keep the nonchalance in his voice.

"What's all this for, Cottontail?"

Bunny yelped, spinning around so fast that one might have thought he'd just heard the devil himself speak to him. Although, Jack thought to himself with a smirk, that probably wasn't all that far off.

But upon recognizing the boy, Bunny only sighed and rolled his eyes. "Crikey. It's just you." He scoffed and shook his head. "Listen, Jackie, I'm busy right now. I haven't got time for you."

"Oh, is that _so?"_ Jack's smirk must have grown – he could tell by the way Bunny's ears flattened against his head. "See," Jack went on, "that's odd, because I was under the impression that you _didn't_ work during your off-season."

Bunnymund scowled. Jack grinned. Whatever the pooka was up to, he didn't want Jack to know. And that meant that this was personal—

"It hasn't got to do with Easter," Bunny said, glancing back to the box. "This is for Tooth."

Jack blinked; he hadn't been expecting to get an answer quite so easily. He hopped down from his staff, landing to the Guardian's right to examine the blueprint. Nothing struck him as particularly Tooth-ish, and when he glanced into the box he found himself even more confused. "What does Tooth want with a bunch of feathers, fabric, and—"

_"Sh!"_ Bunny cut him off, glancing about the room. "Ya never know when the little buggers'll be listenin' in!"

Jack turned around, following his gaze, but he just frustrated himself. "Who?" he asked, looking back at him.

"The bloody _fairies_, a'course!" Bunny cried, his eyes wide. "Those ankle-biters have been tryin' to peek in on me for _years!"_

"Wha—" Jack scowled. "That doesn't make any sense. What do you mean, 'peek in' on you? Do they have some kind of off-color fascination with your teeth, too?"

Bunny took a moment to snicker at Jack. "Nah, mate. That's reserved 'specially for you." Jack started to say something to show just how deeply that remark had cut him, but Bunny had continued by then. "What I mean, frostbite, is that every year around this time they start gettin' anxious. They know I've got somethin' big planned, and I wouldn't want word of it to get to their little _momma, now, would I?"_

The pooka put extra emphasis on the last bit, turning and scowling at a hat sitting on the coat and hat rack at the door. Jack was about to ask why in the world he was making such a stupid face at an inanimate object.

But then Jack remembered that none of them wore hats.

"Get outta' here!" Bunny called, raising a boomerang. "Don't think I ain't afraid to whack your hidin' place! You wanna' be able to _fly_ back to Tooth, don't ya? Git back to work!"

A high-pitched squeal reached Jack's ears – no, several, he realized with wide eyes as all of the fairies reluctantly came from their hiding place. Ten – no, fifteen, maybe twenty of them had all hidden either inside the hat or around the edges of the rack, but at being caught they all were quick to return to Toothiana.

Jack was impressed. That was an awful lot of fairies, to be spying on Bunny. "So, do you have something they want?" he asked when they'd all left. "Or is it Tooth herself who's got an interest?"

Bunny chuckled. "It ain't Tooth, that's for sure." He shook his head, and to Jack's surprise he began picking out bits and pieces from the box, setting them on top of the blueprint. "She enjoys surprises – one year the little ones spoiled it the day before and Tooth was upset for weeks. Forgave 'em pretty quickly, though."

…Well, Jack was now scrambling as he tried to get his head around what was going on. He scratched his head; he was too tired to try and make sense of it. "So," he began again, slower this time, "what is it that you're making her a surprise for?"

Bunny looked up sharply at Jack, and Jack recognized that look instantly – 'oh, right, I forgot he's new.'

"Tooth's spirit-day is comin' up," Bunny replied, and he laughed; he sounded… embarrassed? "I always like to make somethin' for her, ya know? I mean – somethin' _special._"

Jack frowned. "Spirit-day?" he repeated, confused. "What is that?"

"Oh, y'know." Bunny shrugged. "It's what it sounds like. It's a celebration of the day she stopped being human."

Jack nodded, the wheels cranking in his head. It was like a birthday, he figured – but when they were born as a spirit. It made sense, he supposed. But something felt kind of off about the way Bunny was handling it.

"But – " Jack sighed, ran a hand through his hair. "Why are the fairies only spying on _you?_ They're probably spying on North too, aren't they?"

Bunnymund shrugged. "Who knows, eh?"

He chuckled and shook his head, a soft smile on his face as he slipped what he'd gathered into a leather bag. Without another word, he rolled up the blueprint and made his way to the elevator, a certain spring in his step that Jack wasn't used to seeing.

Jack hummed, leaning against his staff. He'd have to make something for Tooth, too – he didn't want to be outdone by a _kangaroo_, after all. If only he'd learned the date.

Oh! Jack almost laughed, shaking his head. There was someone else he could go to in order to discover _that,_ now, wasn't there?

* * *

"_What?"_

Jack blinked, confused by North's bewildered reaction. "What?" he asked, frowning. "Did I say something wrong?"

North rubbed his balding head and let out a long, fast sigh, before setting down the clipboard of paperwork he'd been looking over. "No," he said, but he seemed very careful as he spoke. "Spirit-days – they are not so simple, Jack."

His answer was enough for Jack to cross out the idea of comparing them to birthdays. He crossed his arms, his brow furrowed. "Then how complicated are they?"

"It is not that they are complicated." North made a small gesture in the air, trying to explain something he had known for centuries. "It is just… not simple."

"…" Jack pouted. "So I can't know the date?"

North sighed again, drumming his fingers on his desk. "Is not that I refuse to tell you," he said after a moment of thought. "Is that I cannot tell you. Date is sacred, and day is secret."

That did nothing to clear Jack's confusion. The boy sighed and kicked at the ground absently, with his shoeless and sockless feet. "I don't understand," he confessed. "What does one do on their spirit-day if they don't spend it like humans would a birthday?"

North frowned. Jack didn't understand that, either – what was it about it that made it so hard to explain? Was it, perhaps, North's incomplete English? Did he lack the language to explain it in that tongue? Well, Jack knew French, and he knew Italian, and German, and he knew a little bit of Spanish as well – though Japanese was his most recent. If North knew any of those better than he knew English…

But, Jack realized, he probably did not. The only language North knew better than English was Russian, which Jack could make about as much sense of as he could of calculus.

"Spirit-day is about more than becoming spirit," North said. "It is also about reflection, introspection. It is about memories and dreams and hope and wonder. Something like that, one does not share with everyone."

Jack almost gave up. He almost threw his hands in the air, said "I quit," and walked up to his room to take a nap. But he didn't.

"But… you still get gifts."

"In manner of speaking," North nodded, his smile wide – as if he'd managed to get it across. "Very _big_ presents! But only from those who know the date, and the only ones who know the date are ones you tell!" He nodded once more, appearing satisfied with his explanation.

Jack, on the other hand, was not. "But—" He huffed. "So, you guys don't all celebrate each other's?"

"Day after Easter is day we celebrate spirit-days _together,_" North replied. "Is like Christmas, except is spirit-day. But to know actual date and celebrate on actual day – is very intimate."

Jack nodded; it was starting to all come together. "So…" He blinked – and something clicked. "Wait – wait, so, Bunny and Tooth are—?"

"Very close," North said. "They have special celebration every year. Bunny takes scrap from workshop to create his gift. He makes big projects!"

"Huh." Jack crossed his arms, and a nagging feeling began to tug at his heart. "Then I guess it'd be wrong of me to try to celebrate it with them."

North sighed – his nod was enough to tell Jack that he shouldn't have even asked. "I am sorry, Jack. It depend on the spirit. But if you are anxious, you may wish to make the first invitation."

Jack laughed, his voice dry and constrained. "And I so wanted to outdo that stupid rabbit, too."

How was he supposed to 'make the first invitation' if he didn't have any when he became a spirit? All he knew was that it was winter – he couldn't remember the month or the day, of when he drowned or when he woke up. He didn't even know if they were the same or different.

North clasped one strong, firm hand around the boy's shoulder. "Don't look so down," he said with a smile. "Day after Easter, we all celebrate spirit-days together because of new beginnings. Is one big party, yes?"

Jack looked up at the giant and smiled. "Yeah," he said. "I guess you're right."

North seemed concerned with Jack's reaction, but Jack was quick to slip out of the man's grip. "Thanks for letting me know!" he called as he made for the door.

And now, his curiosity sated for the time being, sleep welcomed Jack like a greedy, self-serving blanket as he climbed into his bed.

* * *

Jack stared at the dull button with narrowed eyes, still groggy from waking so early in the morning and grumpy from his lack of sleep. What in the world?

For whatever reason, the tooth icon was not lit up like the rest, and when Jack pressed it, the elevator did nothing. It didn't even flinch. There was no voice that came on the speakers to tell him why it was not working, and when Jack pressed the door open button, he was still on the tenth floor.

He was not in the mood for technological failure. He'd spent two weeks on the item tucked into his jacket pocket, and he wasn't about to let North's so-called 'perfect' elevator rain on his parade.

_"Listen,_" Jack hissed, glaring at the camera in the corner of the ceiling – he wasn't sure which corner it was, exactly, only that North had mentioned it had been installed on the off-chance someone tried to infiltrate the place. "I will convert this elevator into my own personal _ice closet_ if you don't go to floor seven _right now._ You _hear me,_ whatever you are that's preventing me from continuing?! Do you want to experience _subzero temperatures? Because if you do—"_

Suddenly it began to move. Jack yelped, clutching the handlebars and watching the screen that displayed the number of the current floor. Wait, had that really—?

9, 8, 7—

_It didn't stop._ Jack swallowed. _Nuts._

6—

He had a bad feeling about this.

—5.

There was a small ding. Jack's mind raced –_ which one of them was on floor five?_

Before the door opened, Jack did the first thing he could think of: he hid. He jumped up, arms and legs spread out like a snowflake as he caught the sides of the elevator, but he was not tall enough to reach where the walls joined. His staff was left in a back corner.

As the doors slid open, a warm draft flew in, and it was all Jack could do not to cough on reflex. He held his breath, his eyes wide as he watched Bunnymund enter.

It wasn't so much the fact that it was Bunny that startled him, but the object in the pooka's hands. He couldn't tell what it was – something very vibrant in color, to be sure, but it also had a rather odd shape, though he couldn't make it out clearly from his position. It didn't seem, to Jack, anything that would befit the person he knew it was intended for.

Bunny didn't notice Jack or the staff, thank the Moon. But when Bunny pressed the tooth symbol, the elevator reacted at once, going up without complaint.

Jack didn't know if that was because today was _the day_ (in which case Jack had overhead the fairies correctly), or if the old (or new, whatever) thing just hated him – but either way, Jack felt a twinge of resentment towards it. He vowed he would get back at the elevator for this one day – or the system that ran it, or whatever!

The door opened at the seventh floor, but rather than exiting, the pooka only peeked his head out. Jack grimaced; it was getting harder and harder to keep his grip on the slick metal, and it was only a matter of time before Bunny either looked up or behind him and figured out that Jack was there.

"Tooth?" Bunny called out in a harsh whisper. "You up yet?"

Right, Jack thought to himself with a roll of his eyes, like she would be able to hear—

"I'm right here!"

Jack heard Tooth's giggle clear as day as she tackled the pooka, her arms wrapping around him. She was laughing already, but Bunny hushed her.

"You'll wake 'em up," Bunny scolded under his breath. Tooth nodded, placing a finger to her lips in what Jack thought was faux-solemnity, and Bunny pulled her into the elevator.

_Click._

As soon as the doors shut, Tooth was abuzz with excitement, talking so fast that Jack's head was beginning to spin. Bunny laughed and grinned at her, nodding every now and then – and he said some other things too, like "you'll love it" and "glad you've got so much faith in me" – and when the doors opened and they walked out, Jack finally allowed himself to fall to the floor, rolling mid-air onto his back to protect the object in his jacket pockets. When he landed he was panting from the effort it had taken to keep himself defying gravity.

Well, if anything, Jack had proven one thing: he was _not_ cut out to be a ninja.

He bit back a groan as he got back on his feet, dusting his trousers off as he sat up. Goodness, what a pain in the butt. But at least—

The door began to close again, and without thinking, Jack jumped through, landing on the warm grass of the Warren without his staff. By the time he'd turned around, the door had shut, and pressing on the 'open' button yielded nothing.

He scowled – warm grass, fine, but it was nowhere near comfortable for him – and without his staff, it was going to be hard to create any kind of snow that he could use to make himself more at home.

Maybe it's better this way, he thought after a moment. Now, at least they wouldn't know he was here right away.

Truth be told, Jack hadn't intended to intrude upon their celebration – North had made quite a point of how personal it was, after all – but he hadn't expected the elevator to refuse him access to Tooth's room. He had been surprised by Bunny and Tooth meeting so early, too; he'd have thought that they began their celebration later in the day, maybe around two or three in the afternoon instead of six or seven in the morning.

…Jack considered leaving and coming back later to deliver his gift. But again he pressed on the button, and the closed elevator doors stared him down without mercy.

Under his breath, Jack once more swore that he would have his revenge against what seemed rather _animate_ for an inanimate object, before he turned to the New Warren.

He didn't have a lot of time – he didn't want his present to melt. He considered leaving it tucked in the grass just outside the elevator, for Tooth to find when she left, but he didn't know how long they intended to stay.

He bit back a groan as he began to walk forward.

_Nuts._

* * *

Tooth fluttered about in inconsistent patterns as Bunnymund led her further into his home, and Bunny would be lying if he said it annoyed him. She was easy to excite, and he found that endearing; not to mention that her excitement was contagious. He didn't really _get_ enthusiastic like that, but when she was, he had to feel at least a little bit of it.

"We're almost there, sheila," Bunny promised with a small chuckle. "You can have it then."

Tooth laughed. "Oh, I know," she said, her grin never fading. "I just – I'm so excited! You said this was going to be even _better_ than last year, and – oh goodness, I can't imagine _anything_ like that!"

Bunny's ears perked up a bit, and if he were human, a warm blush would have taken to his cheeks quite well. "Oh, last year's wasn't all that great," he said, modest. In his eyes, it really hadn't been – at least compared to what he'd prepared this year.

"Nonsense!" Toothiana cried, her eyes shimmering in the simulated light. "Last year you made such an awe-inspiring painting for me; I can't _imagine_ how long it took! It was so intricate, and so – so…"

"I know, I know," he said. "Remember, you went on about it last year."

She grinned, her wings faltering for less than a tenth of a second – but still noticeably – as she let out a small, embarrassed laugh. "Yeah, I remember. Sorry."

"No, no." He smiled. "It's nothing to apologize for."

He stopped walking as they arrived at the paint-rivers, still flowing despite the season. Bunny was never going to be quite sure how North had managed to replicate his Warren so perfectly – every last detail was _flawless._ It felt every bit like it had last year.

"We're here."

The announcement was not unexpected, but Bunny had almost wished their walk had gone on forever; it seemed as though time was never on their side. He shook his head at the thought and turned to Tooth – she was already grinning.

"Close your eyes," he said with mock sternness. She laughed and covered them with her fingers, and though he looked down at the object in his paws he could tell that she peeked through them just slightly, the anticipation killing her.

This had always been her favorite part.

Very carefully, he unfolded the delicate cloth, holding it up for her to see. She gasped almost instantly, fluttering back as she pressed a hand to her chest.

If he were human, he would have flushed at her reaction. She always gave him too much credit.

"I-it's amazing," she whispered, reaching her other hand forward to caress the silk. "Is – am I meant to _wear this?"_

"A'course you are!" Bunny laughed, grinning. "What else would a dress be used for?"

He had put a large portion of his heart and soul into making it; the colors were translucent, flowing into each other and shining in the sunlight – he'd intended that effect, to reflect the color in her eyes, and he knew she appreciated it. He'd made sure it was loose, to accommodate her feathers – and he left the bottom open-ended, to help give more flexibility to her tail feathers. Her wings had been tricky to work around, but he'd left a hole in the back large enough for both of them to slip through unhindered.

(Though he prayed she did not ask how he had gotten hold of her measurements; it had been a painful trial, and he still worried North thought worse of him for inquiring.)

She took it from him, gentle but eager as she slipped it over her head. She fell to the ground almost immediately when she ceased her wings, but the sudden impact didn't hinder her so much as _heighten_ her, in a sense. Within moments she was in the air again, fluttering in circles as her eyes laid directly on the fringe of the dress.

"Wow," she murmured as she came to a stop, looking back up at him. "Wow, I – I can't even _remember_ the last time I wore a dress, much less one meant for _dancing._"

Bunny chuckled, scratching the side of his head. "Well, I just – I always _see_ you dance, at parties, y'know, like Christmas – and you do it every year, and when I finally started _watching_ you – I just thought that maybe next time around, you'd like a partner."

Tooth immediately perked up, her eyes alight. "_No_," she whispered, unbelieving. "You – you'll _dance with me?_"

He took her hand, bringing it to his muzzle in the motion of a kiss. "It would be an honor, milady," he said with a playful grin. "Just don't take to the air mid-step."

"Oh, I wouldn't _dream_ of it!" She laughed as she grounded herself once again and took his paws in her hands, her head bobbing to an inaudible beat. "Shall we perform the Viennese Waltz? That dance has always been a personal favorite of mine."

"No need to ask," he said, watching her closely. "It's _your_ day, after all, not mine."

Tooth beamed and took the pose; he recognized it and followed suit. "Please lead me," she said with a small pout. "I'm not accustomed to dancing as the man. I'll count us off, if you like."

He smirked despite himself and bowed his head briefly, looking back into her eyes. "As you wish."

The dance began, at first too fast ("It's a _waltz,_ not a _salsa_," she'd chided) and then too slow ("It's also not a slow dance, dear" – the 'dear' had made him feel like such a child), but finally they reached the pace she'd desired, and Bunny had felt his heart soar when he saw her content face.

The entire experience was magical, sort of, in the sense of the word 'magic' that Bunny had long forgotten. It was the very same magic he was reminded of every year when he and Tooth gathered to celebrate her spirit-day; there was a similar magic in his, to be sure, but it wasn't nearly as awe-inspiring as the one present in hers.

As if to agree with him, a piccolo began to play in the back of his mind – it was soft, but it played well to the waltz and helped to keep the pooka in time. He almost wished that it wasn't so faint; it added to the effect of it all rather spectacularly. It followed their steps with perfect precision, grandiose but humble as it let them lead.

Tooth's smile reached her sparkling pink-violet eyes, never tearing her gaze from his. She was having _fun,_ he realized – the most fun he'd seen her have in ages. Why hadn't he ever noticed that she held such a passion for this art? When she danced, she seemed more alive, more – more _Tooth_. He felt as though he were a terrible friend, for failing to realize it sooner.

As the piccolo faded into nothing and they took their last steps, Tooth let out a sigh as she looked up at Bunny. "That was absolutely _gorgeous,_" she said, her grin irreplaceable. He would always remember the look on her face – he'd never get it out of his head. But the next thing she said, alarmed him.

"And the flute was a _brilliant_ touch, though I'm not sure how you did it."

He blinked at her, confused for a moment, and he stumbled over his words before he finally managed, _"What?"_

Tooth tilted her head, perplexed by his reaction, and said, "The flute? It was a flute, wasn't it? I'm afraid that I'm not musically inclined enough to be able to distinguish an instrument by sound alone, but…"

"…" Bunny frowned. "Wait – you heard it too?"

And that was it; that was the moment that Bunnymund felt the cold breeze in the air, and he was certain Tooth did as well, for they both spun around, eyes and ears alert.

For a moment, it seemed as if the boy had disappeared; truly, like the wind, which was the only indication it had even been the Winter Spirit.

And the next, Bunnymund's ear twitched, hearing soft steps on grass in the direction of the elevator. "He's that way," he said with a point of his finger, and Tooth shot into the air.

Bunny scowled. Whatever was about to happen, he had a feeling that he wasn't going to like it.

* * *

Jack smiled as he shook the water from his fingers, sprinkling some of the flowers of the New Warren as he did. As he'd expected, the piccolo he'd made hadn't lasted very long, though blowing such freezing air into it had lengthened its lifespan as long as possible. It had served its purpose and died a noble death.

He pressed the button to summon the elevator and, to both his surprise and his pleasure, he witnessed the doors open. He shook his head and said, "Man, you're temperamental in the morning, aren't you?"

It didn't respond, of course. It was an _elevator._ But Jack took some pleasure in talking to it nonetheless as he made to enter, missing his staff and his sweet, cold room. If he was lucky, he might be able to get another hour of sleep in before he had to set off for Siberia.

He almost did get to enter it, too – before rather suddenly he felt something crash into him from behind, bringing him down to the ground. He let out an uncharacteristic yelp as he struggled not to swallow a face-full of grass.

_"Jack!"_ It was Tooth. He should have realized it would be her. For some reason he'd immediately thought it would be Bunnymund – it being _his_ Warren and everything – but instead it was the fairy herself who caught up with him. She got up off of him quickly, dusting any dirt off the dress, before she huffed.

"Jack, get up, get _up!_" she insisted, grabbing him by his jacket. Reluctantly, Jack groaned and rolled onto his back, running a hand through his no longer pure white hair.

Well – whatever she was about to say, he might as well get it over with. There was nothing he hated more than waiting for something bad to happen.

But when Jack opened his eyes, still wincing in anticipation, he did not find himself facing a scowling Tooth – a Tooth who was furious that Jack had interrupted her spirit-day. To his immense surprise, she was _smiling_, and – and did she just _giggle?_

"Jack!" She laughed, extending her hand to him. "You have to tell me! Where did you learn to play like that? How long have you known? What piece was that? And – and where did your instrument go?"

"Um." Jack felt a bit overwhelmed as he took her hand and stood. All of these questions; was… was she really not mad at him? "I don't remember where, somewhere in Europe, I guess. For two hundred years or so? It was totally improv, though I did intend to play something I composed when I came over – oh, and it melted."

Her eyes were alight, and her hand never left his – she gripped it tightly, even as Jack saw Bunny approaching them. "Please," she said, "please play something else! It was absolutely _wonderful!_ Oh, yes, the one you composed, I'd _love_ to hear it!"

He winced, rubbing the back of his head – some of the soil fell out. "It's not that I don't want to, really," he said with a small sigh. "But ice-instruments take a long time to make; there's a lot of math involved, and usually I don't have the room in my schedule to spare between being the Spirit of Winter and sleeping. Which, by the way, I really should get back to—"

"Celebrate with us!"

Jack blinked. Bunny's eyes widened, his jaw dropped, but Tooth wasn't looking at him – though Jack could tell Bunny would not very much enjoy his presence.

Despite the invitation, it was as North said; this was personal. Jack had felt as though he were witnessing far too much when he had played for them, and Bunny's reaction proved that he had felt the same.

"Nah, but thanks for the offer," he decided on saying, turning back to Tooth. "I don't know what I'd do for you in return, since I haven't got a clue when I became a spirit. Besides, you know how the saying goes – two's company, but three's a crowd."

"But—" Jack held up an index finger, silencing her. Tooth pouted, her cheeks red as she crossed her arms. "But _Jack_, that's not—"

"Really, I appreciate it and everything," he said, wishing he had a staff to lean on in nonchalance, "and I'd love to write you a song every year and perform it for you – and hey, I might still do that since you just _love it_ so much – but I think you'd better spend most of the day with Cottontail."

Jack gestured to Bunny, who looked as if he'd just swallowed a bug. He didn't even say anything to the nickname. "There aren't a lot of three-person dances, you know," he said with a laugh.

And with that, Jack stepped back into the elevator. "Have fun, you two!" he called just as the doors closed.

Tooth called his name again, but Jack pressed the button to return to his floor. He let out a long breath, rubbing his temples as if such an action could possibly alleviate his sudden headache.

He'd found a way to insert himself into someone else's spirit-day, whether he'd meant to or not. He felt like more of a burden than he'd intended to, like Tooth had felt obligated to invite him more than anything – but the point was moot now.

…So why did Jack still feel unsuccessful? Was it because he had yet to be approached about it – that he had such a low self-esteem that the fact no one had mentioned it to him yet made him feel undervalued, unwanted?

Jack didn't want to think about his self-esteem, or lack thereof. At that moment, sleep was so enticing that as he exited back onto floor ten, he didn't realize that once again he'd left his staff.

* * *

When the Sandman had returned from his rounds for the night and decided to head to floor nine, he was a bit surprised when the elevator disregarded his wishes.

"Current destination: Frost, ten," a woman's voice had announced after he had pressed the nine button. That was new, he thought. He hadn't known that North had given it the ability to speak.

Then again, he also hadn't known the elevator had the ability to choose something other than what Sandy wanted. Whether that was a malfunction or not, he wasn't sure; but either way he determined it was best to bring it up to North.

The door opened, and Sandy braced himself as the cold wind rushed in to the elevator. Shivering, he pressed the nine button once more.

"Error," the elevator announced brightly, as though it took some joy in Sandy's discomfort. "Floor not found."

Floor not—? Was this some kind of prank? Had Jack been the one to mess with it? If he had, then Sandy gave him an A+. He couldn't even begin to imagine the kind of effort it would have taken.

…But if he _hadn't_ been the culprit, then Sandy would need to ask for help to return to the bottom floor in order to contact North. And, well, the doors remained open, far longer than Sandy thought elevator doors usually did.

"Please retrieve any items potentially left behind before exiting," the voice announced once more. Sandy, confused, glanced around the enclosed space – and noticed Jack's staff.

He picked it up, remembering how magical and powerful it had seemed in Jack's capable hands – and now in his the staff was nothing but a branch of a tree that had once lived, long ago. Jack's power had always been something of a mystery to Sandy, to be sure, but also something full of wonder; for none of the other Guardians controlled nature in quite the same way. Sure, North could deal with Time, but he didn't have the option to freeze time more than once a year – or at the very least, he was mature enough to know not to.

Jack, though – Jack could manipulate both the biting and the playful cold, both the good and the bad. While it must have been a burden, to have both forces riding on your shoulders, Sandy also found that it made the boy that much more admirable; for the Sandman himself could only control the good.

Sandy walked into the cold, his sand wrapping around him in another layer of clothing as he dodged the snow banks. Windy, he thought, and he almost laughed. Who knew that the wind would follow Jack _indoors?_

He came to the small cabin next to the lake and knocked. There was no answer for a long moment, and Sandy began to wonder if the boy had gone out for a long night; but that didn't make sense – it was summertime, and Jack had left his staff.

So Sandy knocked again, and this time when Jack opened the door, he was rubbing sleep from his eyes. "Uhh," Jack groaned. "What're you doin' here so late, Sandy?"

He pointed in the direction of the elevator, beginning to make symbols, but Jack raised a hand to stop him. "Nah, it's been like that with me, too." Jack yawned and stepped out of the doorway. "Well, c'mon in. Might as well make yourself at home."

Sandy frowned as he watched the boy, and after a moment, raised the staff. Jack seemed a bit surprised but took it from him, still half-asleep as he muttered his thanks. It was as if Jack wasn't even aware it had been missing.

He took one glance over his shoulder at the elevator, before Sandy entered the cabin, closing the door behind him. Jack sank into the chair next to the desk, the staff lying clumsily in his lap. In his grip it again appeared to glow blue with imbued, winter strength; but it seemed to Sandy that that strength was something Jack was, at the moment, lacking.

Sandy had heard from North that Jack was upset, something about spirit-days – and it confused him. Why would it ever bother the Winter Spirit? Was it that he had not found someone to share in it? Or…

_Oh._ Sandy realized the problem almost immediately. Of course. It was because Jack had no idea when his _was._

That could be easily fixed. Seeing Jack begin to doze, Sandy tugged on the boy's sleeve, grabbing his attention before he made the symbol of a present above his head, accompanied by a question mark.

"'S fine," Jack replied lazily, stifling a yawn. "Nothin' to worry about."

Sandy frowned; Jack hadn't appeared to understand his question. He glanced around the room for a moment – and then he saw it. A calendar placed on the wall next to the lamp. He grinned and took it down, fetching a marker from the desk as he did.

Jack watched him with as much curiosity as he could in his sleep-deprived state, but he was beginning to sober up as Sandy flipped it open, circling a date.

The boy didn't move to see what Sandy was doing, no doubt too tired to do so – so Sandy returned to him, lifting the calendar up to him. "Wh…" Jack took it from him and looked at it for a moment, then glanced back. "What – what's so special about November first?"

Sandy frowned and once again drew the image of a wrapped gift above his head. When Jack still didn't understand, Sandy formed a party hat, and an arrow pointing down at himself.

_That_ was pretty clear. Jack's eyes widened and his jaw dropped, and he nearly let go of the calendar. "You're – you're sharing it with me? But – but I didn't – " Jack stuttered for a moment, before finally he managed, "I can't share mine with _you,_ though!"

Sandy shrugged and took the calendar back, flipping to another month and circling another date. When he handed it back, Jack opened his mouth – and closed it. The wheels were turning in his head, and Sandy almost began to create more symbols, to help explain it to him—

But he stopped. Jack's shoulders were shaking, and when he lifted his head his eyes were swimming.

"December twenty-first," he said, and a grin stretched across his lips. "The winter solstice. _Wow._ Wow."

And then without warning, Jack lifted the Sandman and pulled him into a tight hug. Sandy returned it gladly – he _loathed_ seeing Jack upset. The Guardian of Fun should have has little troubles as possible, and he was more than happy to lift some of that off of his shoulders.

"Thank you," Jack whispered, his grin never leaving. "Thank you, thank you, _thank you!"_

The hug ended, Sandy glanced back at the door. He looked to Jack, and created the symbol of an elevator above his head – two doors separated by a thin crack. Jack laughed and shrugged.

"I think it'll let you leave now. If it gives you any more trouble, let me know. I'll see what I can do."

Sandy nodded gratefully and waved to Jack as he left the cabin, back into the winter wonderland. The wind had calmed, and Sandy almost laughed as he made his way back.

What a joy, to be the bringer of dreams. He sent a trail of the dream sand back to the cabin, knowing Jack would get some good sleep that night.

He pressed the button to go down, and he let out a small, silent chuckle as the doors opened without a single complaint. Of _course_ it did. He shook his head and pressed the nine, returning to his floor.

Only as Sandy laid onto his bed of sand did he realize that it was not night, but in fact, early morning at the pole.

… Oops.

* * *

**Elsa's Note:** It's _finally_ over. Oh my god! (/collapses)

I cannot tell you all how immensely happy I am that this is complete and uploaded! It took a lot longer than I expected and was a few thousand words longer than I intended, but I hope it lived up to all of your expectations!

Also, I don't actually know the dates of when anyone became spirits. November first had a bit of meaning, but Tooth's being in summertime? Totally pulled that out of my derrière.

(Disclaimer: It is canon that North has some sway over time, though I am unsure just how much. I don't remember all that the app said, as alas, I do not have it. I borrowed it briefly on a friend's phone. So I apologize if it is incorrect!)

Reviews, flames, critiques and everything in between are all welcome!


	4. The Devil Wears a Toga

_4. The Devil Wears a Toga_

It's been almost a year since they all moved into the Tower. A whole, mind-numbing year. And really, after nearly 365 days with the Guardians, Jack thought he would have been prepared for any and all oddities he would find his friends participating in over the months that they'd been sharing a roof over their heads.

But after he stepped back inside, finally returned home from blessing the west coast of Canada and Alaska, he wasn't exactly planning on finding a pot-and-skillet-armored Bunnymund pouncing on him as soon as he was indoors.

It was as if one minute there had been the calm, busy sounds of a bustling Santoff Clausen all around him before suddenly his head smacked into the ground, and all the lights went bright above him.

"Ow! Cottontail? What the heck—"

"—state your name."

Jack stared oddly at the pooka pinning him down—who really, couldn't have looked any less serious with a stainless strainer curved over his head, pushing his long ears towards the ground. "What? Are you crazy?" he half-laughed, mystified and thinking this must be some sort of joke.

"Actually, not at all, mate. Now state your name."

Jack scoffed, blue eyes dancing away before finding the pooka's dead-set ones again with disbelief. "…uh…Jack Frost? Duh?"

Bunnymund narrowed his eyes, before leaning forward and sniffing once—twice—and then finally, nodding to himself, leaning backward on his haunches before pushing himself to a stand. "Good. You're clear."

"Clear?" Jack 'pffted,' standing up quickly with the help of his staff. He then leaned on it curiously as he regarded the Guardian of Hope beside him, all kitchen-wared up and ready to do the battle of all cuisines, it seemed like. He couldn't help but laugh. "Okay. Wait a sec—hold up. Clear for what? Sautéing?"

Bunnymund was not amused. "No. I mean, you're in the clear. You're not Infected."

"Infected?" Jack gave the pooka another odd look, although he couldn't stop smiling. This was…somehow, delightfully unexpected. Maybe the old rabbit was finally losing it. "What do you mean, 'Infected'?"

Instead of immediately responding, however, Bunnymund scrunched up his nose in severe distaste. "Don't tell me ya haven't met the guy?"

"Who?"

Bunnymund gave him a blank, shocked look, and said the only thing his mind could come up with. "…shut up."

Jack straightened. "What?"

"You're telling me that in all your three-hundred-plus years of existence, even while you still put snow on people's doorsteps because it's February, that you haven't once crossed paths with the abomination that is Cupid?"

Oh.

_Oh._

Jack tilted his head back and heaved out wild bursts of laughter. Meanwhile, Bunny began to look even more unamused, fur bristling with annoyance as the younger Guardian chortled on, unaware. "Look here—it's not funny! He really is a downright brat; I don't even know why people still believe in him…he tries to interfere with my holiday, for Pete's sake!"

"I-interfere…?" Jack breathed—or, more like wheezed, because he still couldn't get the image out of his mind of how serious Bunny had looked when he had mentioned the 'abomination that is Cupid'—and tried to straighten up. "But Easter's two months away…"

"Exactly!" Bunny emphasized. "Two months left to get ready for the biggest day of the year—and what does that stupid barefoot angel always do? Try and freakin' play match-maker! Thinks I'm some kind of Bachelor-of-the-Year—_every year."_

Jack lost it again, having to lean on his staff even more heavily, not trusting his own feet to keep him upright the harder he heaved with laughter.

But Bunny only scowled at him, before stomping off in the direction of his previous hide-out by the front doors to the Tower. Clearly, he was waiting there in ambush, all ready for his target to appear through at any minute—and at seeing his provisions and miniature fort (also constructed from various supplies stolen from the kitchens), Jack couldn't help but laugh harder.

The pooka ignored him as best as possible.

"Just wait, Jack Frost," he mumbled with vendetta, cocking his ketchup-filled squirt gun as he crouched. "Once Cupid sees he's got someone else to try and play match-maker with, we'll see who'll be laughing next…"

* * *

Jack was hardly aware of what was going on. Sipping on a cup of hot-chocolate-turned-cold (he had opened the window in the kitchen just to reach out and scoop out some snow to stick in the drink; unfortunately, whoever used the last of the ice in the tray forgot to fill it with water—the _numbskull_), he wasn't aware of being in potential danger until a golden, heart-shaped arrow struck the fridge door right beside his face.

His eyes, however, snapped up the same time a tiny, muffled, "_Shoot_," was muttered from somewhere in front of him.

"Hey!" he shouted, putting down his mug and reaching for his staff. He couldn't see the culprit, but that wasn't too big of a concern. If it came to it, he could just freeze the entire kitchen, and therefore, their intruder, as well. "What's the big idea? Show yourself!"

His only response was a mischievous, high-pitched giggle. "Oooo! So feisty! I _definitely _want to play with you!"

"Play with me?" Jack frowned, clenching his staff tightly so that it glowed with the same antsy anticipation he felt thrumming through him. "Um—no—look, I like games, but if your definition of 'playing' includes firing arrows at me, then—"

"—oh! Oh! You like games! Good! Then you won't mind if I do _this_!"

Another arrow—faster than the last one.

Unthinking, Jack rolled out of the way, and stretched ice out simultaneously to try and capture whoever had fired the thing in the first place. "Did you _not _just hear what I said?"

His still-hidden opponent whined. "Yes I did! You like games! So do I—but this isn't fair, Jack. Ice isn't nice! It's not; it's not! (Hee, hee, I made a rhyme)…"

Careful, and having an odd, yet clear idea of who this intruder was, Jack eased forward towards the direction where he may-or-may-not have caught this annoying spirit. "You brought it on yourself, buddy. And how did you even get in? Who _are_—oh."

Walking around the cabinet, he saw he did indeed catch the intruder.

"…I should have guessed. Cupid."

The little winged and white-robed child looked at him angrily, small cheeks puffed in annoyance at having his sandaled feet frozen to the ground. In his hand he held a small, delicately curved bow, and wrapped around his back lied his quiver, with what looked like two types of arrows. Jack couldn't help but quirk a smirk. "Well. Guess I caught you red-handed, huh? The little match-maker…"

The child huffed, and flapped his wings rapidly, straining the ice, but still not getting free. "No you didn't! My hand's not even red! It's not; it's not!"

"Okay, okay," Jack chuckled, leaning on his staff as he interrogated the cherub. "But what are you even _doing_ here?" he asked as he poked at one of the small, white-feathered wings, earning him a whine from the little angel. "Isn't Valentine's Day soon? I mean, shouldn't you be getting all your lucky bachelors and bachelorettes ready for the big day?"

Cupid huffed. "Yes, but…" His eyes suddenly shifted, glancing around the kitchen with what looked like longing. "…but I got hungry. And North always has the best food…"

…well. Jack couldn't argue with that.

(Neither could he pretend that he didn't remember what hunger felt like.)

Sighing, Jack shook his head. "Don't know why Cottontail's so 'fraid of you. You're harmless," he muttered to himself as he bent down to melt the ice and release the spell. "All right, then. Grab something to eat. But afterwards, you better high-tail it out of here. If Bunny saw you—"

—too late, Jack realized it was a trap.

In fact, he was hardly aware of what had happened (again) until he found himself dazed, dizzily staring at the ceiling and his staff knocked out of his hand to clack to the tile floor beside him. Vaguely, he could feel a churning in his stomach, and a light, burning (but warm, soft, too) pain in his shoulder—_Am I sick?_—before he found the strength to turn his head and see the gold-shaft of an arrow poking out of it.

The last thing he heard before consciousness left him was the gleeful laugh of a delighted, freed cherub as the boy cried, "Yes! Yes! I got the Jack Frost—what fun, what fun! Now, for the others—to spread the love!"

…it should have sounded vindictive. Maybe even evil, perhaps. But Jack couldn't help but think as the world faded to black that it was kind of cute.

Oh, and Bunny was going to kill him. He really shouldn't have opened that window.

_Nuts._

* * *

Phil had been told to find and close whatever window had been letting in that chilly draft from outside. Well, the instructions specifically had been to do either that or locate Jack Frost, considering the possibility that he, instead, might be the culprit for the sudden drop in temperature. But still.

He hadn't expected to find both.

The kitchen window had been what was open, letting in the frigid Northern wind. After shutting it, however, the Yeti neared the fallen Guardian, who for all it seemed was just sleeping on a patch of ice of his own making. At least, that's what it looked like—nothing appeared to be particularly wrong with him. Thinking nothing of it, Phil bent to wake the young man.

He really should have known better.

* * *

An almighty roar jerked North from his musings of his latest ice sculpture. Confused—because that certainly was Phil, who he had just told to go stop the draft—he instantly exited his office and intended to head down to the lower levels of Santoff Clausen to find him.

Phil, however, apparently decided that the landing between floors was a good enough rendezvous point, and promptly met North's face at it with another panicked yell.

"Phil!" North greeted before noting his companion. "And Jack—erm—what is problem?"

Phil roared again, eyes wide and afraid, gesturing wildly to his arm and the Guardian latched on to it—and it was then North noticed that it appeared their youngest member didn't seem to be too keen on letting go at any time soon. In fact, as far as he could see, Jack was pretty content to just hang on to Phil's fluffy, flailing arm for the rest of eternity.

"Jack?" North asked, nearing carefully. "Phil—stop swinging arm! You will make him sick!"

Phil's response was something along the lines of, "He's _already _sick!" but it was hard to tell. (Translating frightened yeti wasn't necessarily easy—their growling tended to slur together words incoherently in that state.)

But Phil stilled anyway, and let North try to reason with the kid as best he could.

Unfortunately, that wasn't a whole lot.

"Jack—"

"—no!"

"What? But I've not even—"

"—you're going to ask me to let go—I know it! But I won't! I'll never let go!"

North wondered if the boy was momentarily getting himself confused with another, fictional Jack. But of course, that couldn't be the case, because Phil—good Man on the Moon in the _sky_—was _certainly _no Rose.

(Oh, gosh. No. Just no.)

"Jack, what is wrong? You acting like child!" North tried to scold.

"I don't care!" came the petulant response, stubbornly muffled by dirty-white Yeti fur. "If I'm a child, so what? Who says you are too young to fall in love?"

Love?

_Love?_

North suddenly leaned forward so fast, that Jack never had a chance to respond as the older Guardian sniffed the boy's hair first and then his closest shoulder.

Ah—_ah. There_ it was, that unmistakable, sickeningly syrupy-sweet scent of cherry and rose blossoms, only made stronger and more potent by the upcoming day of Saint Valentine's.

_Cupid._

North moved into action, pulling away and down the stairs. "Phil, stay here—_do not move. _I will fetch Bunny. He knows how to cure Jack, I am sure!" After all, there was nothing else the pooka had even spoken of for the past two weeks of February. Surely, after all that show, he'd know how to reverse the spell of Cupid's arrow?

But what North didn't see as he hurried away was a giggling little cherub hidden in shadow, knocking another arrow into his bow to fire at an unexpecting Yeti.

* * *

"Bunny!"

Bunnymund swerved around, ketchup-gun at the ready, only to see that it was North jogging his way over with alarmingly-wide eyes. (Luckily, there was no small, two-winged angel in sight nearby.) So relaxing, he lowered his gun and straightened up. His kitchen-ware clanked with the movement. "Is something wrong, North?"

The larger man panted at first, gaining his breath back, before suddenly and without warning, reaching out to clasp his hand on the pooka's forearm. With uncharacteristic hurry, the Guardian of Wonder unceremoniously began dragging him away from the entrance of their Tower, all the while informing, "Jack has been hit by Cupid's arrow—"

"—_Cupid_?!" Bunnymund sharply regained his footing, alert and ready and suddenly keeping up. "That puny punk! How'd he get in?" With one hand he cocked his gun, and North couldn't help but vaguely wonder if that was _really_ a safety he had heard click off or not.

The man shrugged and then froze an instant later, bringing them to an abrupt halt. "Tchaikovsky! The window—there was a window open, letting in a draft. I did not think of it! I told Phil to close window and he must have found Jack afterwards—"

"—blimey! What idiot left a window open? That Cupid already has a knack for getting into impenetrable places—he doesn't need any help!" Then the second part of North's statement caught up with him, and he felt his jaw go slack in dread. Oh, of all people— "—wait. Jack saw _Phil_ first?"

"Oh! Are you two looking for Phil and Jack?"

Both Guardians snapped towards their companion, the Toothfairy, who hovered nearby, eyes bright and curious with her hands clasped behind her back. "Because, you know," she continued innocently, "I just passed them both by not too long ago. I thought it was kind of weird; I know I'm only very rusty at Yeti, but I thought Phil mentioned something about finding an appropriate cold chamber for the two of them—"

Oh no no no no no no no no—

Without thinking, the two burst into a run, almost out of her sight faster than Tooth could blink. She frowned, puzzled.

"…was it something I said?"

* * *

Voices.

Heat. (When really, there shouldn't be.)

More voices.

And then a _bang._

No noise.

Cold.

(But not the kind he knew. This cold was empty. Void.)

Jack scratched. Scratched and scratched, and whined and was pretty sure he sounded pitiful, but he didn't care. Not really.

(Not yet.)

* * *

Bunnymund sagged against the door he just locked behind him, sighing in relief. Of course, Jack was wailing and scratching at the door on the other side—maybe a little disconcertingly—but hey. At least he and Phil were separated now to ride out the effects. That was the important bit.

He saw North return from the end of the Hallway of Unused Rooms—in the planning stages of their Tower, they had figured that in case guests wanted to stay over, it was a good idea to have a place for them to sleep—so on the third floor, across from the kitchens, lied the Hallway of Unused Rooms, waiting for that purpose—(And it wasn't a very creative name, but that didn't really matter.)—dusting his hands off.

"Phil's all tucked away?" Bunny asked guardedly.

North nodded, coming to a stop beside the pooka and resting his hands on his waist. "Locked and sealed. Now…what we do about Cupid?"

"Oh, that's the easy part," Bunny answered, straightening up and beginning to march out of the hallway, all set and determined for war. "We kick 'im out. Make sure he never shows his little, annoying face here again!" And as soon as they had exited the hallway, back into the main, gaping chamber of Santoff Clausen, Bunny reached forward for the railing, yelling out to the open space, "Because—ya hear that, ya little punk?! Your kind are not welcome here!" ("Here, here, here…")

North thought about refuting that echoing statement by pointing out the fact that _technically, _they _all _were "Cupid's kind," but he refrained. Something about Bunny's vengeance seemed to make that sound like a very, very bad idea.

But then, to North's surprise—and, as it appeared, to Bunny's as well—a small, high-pitched voice actually _responded._

"Awwwwwww…not welcome? How mean! And here I liked you, Bun-Buns!"

To accompany the statement, a golden-shafted arrow sharply punctured the rail right where the pooka's paw had been just a second earlier—that is, unless he hadn't moved it a centimeter to the right before it hit.

Cupid crooned with glee, not caring that he missed, fluttering into view and looking quite ecstatic at the annoyed/shocked expressions of his two audience members. He clasped his bow faux-innocently behind his back. "Y'know, I've been looking _everywhere_ for you, Bun-Buns! You've been awfully clever hiding from me _this_ time. Now I just need to find that pretty toothfairy and we can be in _business_—"

"—don't you _dare_ place one of your seedy little arrows on Tooth!" Bunny threatened, drawing one of his ketchup-guns and cocking it for the ready.

But at the sight of the weapon, Cupid suddenly and unexpectedly faltered, eyes going wide. "…you didn't."

The pooka grinned. "Oh, believe me. _I did_."

North glanced between the two in bafflement. "What?"

"You see, I came prepared this time for you, Cupid. I've been doin' my research. And y'know what I learned?" The look on the angel's face said that he wanted _anything_ but to know that. So Bunny obliged. He continued. "There's one household condiment that the little guy can't stand…"

North suddenly put the pieces together, although he wasn't quite sure the overall image still made sense. " …ketchup? Little Cupid scared of _ketchup_?"

"It's a horrible thing!" the little cherub suddenly cried, eyeing the large rabbit as it maliciously stepped forward with something between frustration and fear. "Red—how—how _dare_ it be red and so sweet and so sugary but _not be dessert_! STUPID, STUPID KETCHUP! LIKE STUPID, STUPID BUN-BUNS!"

Bunnymund was so delighted, he would have almost looked like one of Pitch's creations—that is, if it weren't for the stainless kitchen-get-up he still retained. (It made him look like a mutated tin-man, North noted, impressed with his second human-movie-reference of the day. The big man was on a _roll._) Aiming it high and up, he pointed it directly at the zig-zagging angel. "Say your prayers or run away, little punk! Those are your only two options!"

Cupid whined, buzzing about, trying to shake the pooka's aim, but it was no good. "No! No no no no no _no_, Cupid's supposed to have the fun! The fun is mine! _My holiday_!"

"Well I got news for you, pal," Bunny grinned. "This is for all the holidays of _mine _you've gotten in the way of!"

And with that, a large amount of ketchup was suddenly launched, headed for the tiny cherub, who squealed and dived away, zipping as fast as he could over the other floors.

Bunnymund cheered, cocked the gun, and gave chase. "You're not getting away _that_ easily!"

"Bunny! Wait! You going to make mess! It will take ages to clean!" North tried to cry, to stop the fighting before it escalated.

But the pooka didn't hear him. So when North heard another, frightened yell and the squirting of a ketchup-gun, followed by an indignant Yeti roar and the crash-bang-thud of an assembly line that was most certainly being crushed, he sighed and turned back to the Hallway of Unused Rooms. That settled it.

Bunny was on cleaning duty.

From now until Easter.

* * *

When Jack became aware of his surroundings again, he realized first that his fingers ached like none other, as did his throat—not to mention there was a cramp in his neck—and that he most _definitely _did not remember falling asleep curled against a random door to an unfurnished room last night.

(Although, come to think of it, Jack couldn't remember much of anything that happened last night at all. Huh. How strange.)

(…or, at least. It _felt_ like last night. Had a night passed?)

Confused, frowning, he groaned as he tried to sort out all the kinks his sore bones had from sleeping upright.

Then he noticed his staff was gone.

With a sudden fright, he looked around the empty room—which, was still empty—before yanking the door open—or trying to, before finding it locked. Then, he quickly unlocked it and bolted out into the hallway, glancing back and forth violently before he recognized where he was.

_Hallway of Unused Rooms. Got it. Okay. So just where the heck is my staff?_

"Jack! Oh! You're awake much faster than Bunny said you would be!"

_Tooth._

Turning around, Jack met the fairy as she hovered nearby, circling around him worriedly like a mother hen. He tried to follow her with his eyes, but for some reason, he must have been really sensitive because that made him dizzy, so he shook his head. "Are you feeling any better? North and Bunny had said that you were struck by Cupid's arrow—"

—Cupid's arrow? What?

Jack looked up, gazing openly lost at her, before the memories suddenly came surging back. _Oh yeah. Open window. Snow. Cold-hot-chocolate. Arrow. Cupid. Then—_

"—that little twerp! He tricked me!" Jack heaved, suddenly angry. "Where is he? I gotta—"

"—oh, no, no, he's already gone. Bunny chased him out, don't worry." Tooth smiled, although something still troubled her. "Are you sure you're all right? Maybe I should have Bunny look at you, just to make sure the spell is out of your system…he said it would take a while…well, not as long for you, but longer for Phil, because he's bigger and all…"

"Phil?" Something about the Yeti jumped out so loudly in the fog of Jack's memories about last night, but he couldn't remember what. "Phil got hit, too?"

Tooth nodded compassionately. "Soon after you did. In fact—" here she giggled, trying to hide it, but apparently finding it so amusing she couldn't stop, "—he and you were—" but then she _did_ catch herself, and suddenly pressed her lips together with new, amused, resolve. She put her hand on his shoulder, guiding him out of the hallway, even though something within the winter spirit was burning, ironically, so curiously about what she had been going to say. "Well. Never mind. Let's get you to Bunny."

Bunny, as it turned out, was chilling out in the living room on the other side of the third floor, in front of the television. Sitting on the couch with only half of his kitchen-gear on (as if he had started undressing, before giving up and deciding rest was better and much, much more important) and his large feet propped up on the table. In his paw, he still held the potent ketchup-gun, although Jack noted it was only a quarter-full now, and lied limp like a sleeping dragon in his palm.

_Wow. Must have been quite the fight, _he thought mildly.

Tooth fluttered ahead of him, reaching the pooka's side to announce, "Jack's awake. Think he's clear, now?"

Bunnymund only gave a short grunt that sounded something like, "Well, let's see," before gesturing with the paw holding the ketchup-gun for the Guardian of Fun to walk over. Jack Frost sulked, frowning—after all, who said he had to follow the pooka's orders?—before conceding.

"I want my staff back," he then muttered at the couch's side, crossing his arms over his chest.

The rabbit gave him one look over, apparently pleased, before nodding. "It's in North's office."

Jack nodded.

Yet as he turned to walk away, he was suddenly met in the face by a splurt of ketchup.

Bunnymund answered the question before it was even asked.

"That's for leaving the dumb window open, Frostbite."

…Jack supposed he might have deserved that one.

* * *

**Crystal's Notes: **Well. 8D This one turned into a monster. I wanted to just to a humorous, little piece for Valentine's Day, inevitably involving the very mischievous Cupid, but...well, as usual, it turned out longer than I expected.

I do hope this made you laugh. 8D I figured we needed something silly and light-hearted after the touching oneshots we've been having so far. So here. An emotional reprieve, or better yet known as, comedy relief. (Or a very, very sad attempt at one. If so, my apologies. I shall try harder.)

Also, Elsa pointed out something interesting in her beta-ing that I hadn't thought of too much while writing this, but it certainly makes sense and makes the entire situation that much more silly. Somehow, Bunny almost acts as if Cupid is worse than Pitch. So, in a sense, that would mean that the Spirit of Love is regarded as the greater enemy than the Spirit of Fear?

(Yeah. I don't think Bunnymund quite has his priorities figured out. But that's okay.)

PS: This particular oneshot is set in the future. All of these stories are not exactly being written in chronological order, but so you understand, there will be future oneshots that take place before this one. If anyone wants, we can make a timeline that will gradually adjust itself as we add more and more oneshots to the pile. Just let us know!

So then. Enjoy! And have a blessed, blessed day!


	5. Eye-to-Eye

_5. Eye-to-Eye_

When Jack finally managed to drag himself out of heavy sleep, everything ached. His head ached, his stomach ached, his arms and legs ached. He was cold – _Jack Frost,_ the one being that was supposed to be impervious to such drastic temperatures, was _freezing_. He had shivers and a cold sweat, and all Jack wanted to do when he saw how bright the (still startlingly _real_) sky was, was go back to sleep.

But he couldn't. When his eyes blinked open, the first thing he saw was Nicholas St. North – standing over him, his arms crossed, an expression so utterly uninteresting and bland that Jack couldn't bring himself to try to decipher it. Instead, he groaned and turned over, pressing the gold pillow over his head as if he might escape what he knew was about to come.

"Jack Frost!"

North sounded as if he was scolding a child. Jack bit back a groan and refused to oblige him; the blankets, though a source of warmth, were not enough, and he pulled them in tighter as if it might help.

"It is past midday!" North exclaimed, his arms waving. "What are you doing, still in bed? Is winter, Jack! Canada and United States and Russia and Europe – they all await you!"

"No."

His voice came out harsher and more pathetic than he'd intended, but no matter. He buried still further into the bed, refusing to listen any more. There was no reason to; Jack was certain he was sick, and he was certain he'd be unable to get much farther than Greenland before his energy began to fail him.

To be fair, though, he'd had some idea he would get sick. It was his own fault for trying to freeze over the basin of Death Valley. He'd just thought, well – they _never_ get snow! And it was always so hot; surely they'd love it!

…_Hah._ What a dream! What a childish fantasy _that_ had been! It'd been _so_ hot that Jack was only able to create a few mild breezes. He'd spent the majority of yesterday there, struggling to defy Mother Nature. He was pretty positive that she'd been the one to make sure he'd gotten this disgusting sickness, because he'd gotten these symptoms before once when he tried to make it snow in the Sahara.

(As a side note, Jack found that blaming Mother Nature never went wrong. Everything could be traced back to her, it seemed.)

Neither of which seemed to be one of his better ideas. But, he'd made it through the first time, and so he would push through this one just the same: by waiting for it to pass.

"Jack."

Jack ignored him, and when he felt North's hand on his shoulder, shaking him – he sounded concerned. "Jack, get up."

_"No."_ Jack pulled his head out from his pillow only to glare through half-lidded eyes at the man. "I said no, and I mean no. Look, you're busy, so just—just let me sleep in peace, okay?"

North looked surprised by Jack's answer – and a bit hurt, though Jack couldn't fathom why. (But then again, three hundred years of solitude did nothing to advance a person's social skills. He was terrible at empathizing.) The look was gone in an instant, and it was replaced by something that Jack recognized at once.

That was… determination. Jack knew at once that a determined North was not pleasant when his determination was directed towards you. It was one thing to be aligned with it, and something else entirely to be against it.

"Why is face blue?" North asked, reaching forward without warning and pressing a hand on the boy's forehead. Jack yelped and yanked away, the sudden warmth too much for him – under normal circumstances, it was bearable, but not when his body temperature was this low.

"Maybe it's just sick of you," Jack replied with a scowl, never leaving the meager warmth of the covers. "Look, you're not getting me up. I just want to _rest._"

"Mmm," North said, stroking his beard – and Jack wanted to groan. That was the look of a schemer, one that Jack knew all too well. "If Jack does not see to his duties—"

"Oh, shut _up!"_ Jack this time didn't resist the groan as he retreated back underneath the pillow of sweet, sweet goodness. "I'm taking a sick day, North, all right? You're not my boss, and I'm sure as all get-out that the Man in the Moon can live for just _one day_ of me not on the job – but he shouldn't count as my boss, either."

North said nothing, and Jack did not look up – not even when he heard the door to the cabin close, or the elevator ding. He didn't care whatever North was planning on doing.

All he cared about right now was the sleep that begged for his return like a heavy cloud overhead…

* * *

"Jack."

"_No…"_

Bunny scowled and gave the boy a light shove. "Jack, if you don't wake up this instant, I'm duckin' you in boiling—"

"_No!" _Jack's eyes shot open and he scrambled backwards, hitting his back against the wall as he cowered from it. "No no _no_ you know I can't take that kind of heat especially right now what are you trying to do _melt_ me—?"

His reaction seemed to amuse Bunny, who glanced back behind himself and raised one of his paws in what Jack thought was supposed to be a thumbs-up. Jack peered over the pooka's shoulder, missing the comfort of the blanket already but feeling as though it was unsafe to do so, and sure enough North was standing in the doorway. The man stood with his large arms crossed over his chest, a smug look on his face.

He had a tub of boiling water right next to him. _What?_ They were really going to – Jack felt his blood begin to boil, but before he could snap at them for being so careless with him, Bunny snatched the blanket and yanked it out from underneath him. With a small yelp, Jack was left sprawled out on the bed with only the covers; it seemed they'd taken the pillow from him while he was still asleep.

Jack groaned and pressed into the mattress, curling around himself in an attempt to conserve his body heat. Bunny had one ear raised and the other bent in confusion, exchanging a glance with North, before he asked, "Frostbite, what the heck's wrong with you?"

"C-cold." His teeth were chattering now, but he tried to press his lips together as best he could to prevent them from noticing. "Sick. Lemme' 'lone."

"_Cold?"_ Bunny repeated with an incredulous scoff. "Jack bloody Frost is _cold?_ What kinda' prank is this?"

"Sick?" North frowned, running a hand through his beard. "Then Jack must need medicine."

"N-no, no, that's fine, really, I'm perfectly fine!" Jack rubbed his hands together, wishing friction actually worked with someone like him. "There's nothing _that_ wrong with me, okay? I just need to wait it out."

Bunny rolled his eyes. "Wait it out, right." He gave a small laugh, as though trying to hide it, before he said, "Illness doesn't work like that, mate."

"This one does." Though admittedly, Jack had never tried to deal with it another way. It seemed to him that because he had powered through it the first time, which had worked, if he tried it another way it might just make it worse. It was best to stick with what he knew.

North didn't say anything to Jack, and neither did Bunny. Instead, they just looked to each other.

"I have some medicines that Ombric left behind for human girl," North said. "I am sure that at least one is for cold."

Jack's heart fell. North reminded him – he was just so like – he had such an _uncanny_ resemblance to –

"They still in the same place, then?"

"Um, hey," Jack tried to interject, "I said I don't—"

"Correct. Oh, and tell yetis to make fresh batch and to bring up when done."

Jack groaned and held his head, ignoring North's gaze as Bunny bounded out of the room. He didn't have the energy right now, to be dealing with them, to be _fighting_ them – and the fact that North was behaving eerily as his father would wasn't doing anything to help him. It'd be better, Jack decided, to just let things take their course.

…If they didn't kill him first.

* * *

For fifteen minutes, Jack and North sat in silence. North's eyes never left Jack, and when Jack glanced at him he could _feel_ the man thinking, the wheels turning, and it made Jack uncomfortable. Jack shifted almost constantly, trying to brush it off as just his sickness getting to him.

Jack wasn't sure, exactly, what North was thinking about. But in Jack's mind, all he was worried about was separating North from his father. Of course he knew they were separate – two entirely different people. One had been young and the other had not. One was mortal and the other was not. One was dead and the other was not.

…But it was precisely because his real father was dead that Jack was having this problem. Had Jack still been in touch with his father – if his father would have been able to see him, when Jack escaped the confines of that frozen lake, told him who he was – Jack was certain he'd be fine, even if he'd lived far beyond his father's lifespan. North as a father figure wouldn't have been as big of a deal so long as he still had had his real father.

As it was now, Jack found that he'd subconsciously begun to replace the ideal of his birth-father with North. And it was so disrespectful to Mr. Frost, who'd raised him for his sixteen or seventeen years of life – it was a dishonor to the man's memory, to replace him like that, after only meeting Father Christmas so soon.

…He'd only remembered him recently, after all. The least Jack could do was keep him remembered.

As these thoughts raced through Jack's head, as he rocked himself back and forth in an attempt to keep warm – something he'd never thought he'd want to do – he realized, rather suddenly, that North had moved.

Before Jack could make a sound of protest, North had sat next to him on the bed and wrapped the blanket around the boy again. "Bunny takes too long," North said when he saw Jack's frozen stare at the arm still firmly around his shoulders, his jaw agape. "Jack is sick. Why did you not say so sooner?"

Jack's throat went dry; his headache suddenly intensified. Something had stirred up his memories—

_"Jack, if I had known you were sick, I wouldn't have let you run around in the snow!"_

_ "I know, Dad—"_

_ "No, no, let me finish. I scolded you so harshly for running around like that – without a coat, just running and playing and climbing trees like you usually do. But you must have felt _terrible._ And now look at you; you're bedridden."_

_ "Dad, really, it's—"_

_ "Why didn't you say anything?"_

_"…Because—"_

"—because I didn't want you to worry."

North blinked – or at least Jack thought he did. He could only see the man's face from the corner of his eye, having turned away from him. "What?"

"I said I didn't want you to worry," Jack replied, his mind still a bit fuzzy. "I just… didn't. And now you are. See?"

_"Jack…"_

North sighed. "My boy, do you really think that hiding this from us…"

_"…would have made me worry less?"_

"If anything," North said,

_"It's made me worry more."_

Jack smiled up at North, despite the hole in his gut that told him how his father would disapprove of him making a father-son relationship with someone else – because fathers, something told him, didn't like being replaced.

"Guess you're right," Jack mumbled, and for the first time all day he felt warm. "Sorry."

North sighed again and shook his head, rubbing Jack's shoulder again. "Is nothing," he said with affection, his eyes twinkling with the sentiment as he gazed down at the boy. "Just please, if you do not feel well, let us know. We are not heartless, Jack – we understand."

Jack let out a laugh at that – because these guys, _heartless?_ How in the world could _anyone_ come to _that_ conclusion? – and he leaned against the man. It was winter, and though Christmas had only recently ended, Jack felt a bit guilty for separating North from his work.

"Oi! North!"

The door burst open as Bunny returned at last, a bottle of medicine in one hand and a plate of cookies in the other. "Fresh outta' the oven," Bunny announced with a proud smile on his face, and he didn't seem at all surprised to see them so close. He set the plate on the bed, and when Jack reached forward on instinct (he was still such a child, to North's delight), Bunny slapped his hand away. "Not yet."

Jack, for his part, seemed aghast, his eyes widening. "Not _yet?"_ he repeated, impatient as ever. "But—you can't just—they're right _there—"_

"They sure are, mate," Bunny replied, and held up the bottle to Jack's eye level. "But you've got somethin' to do first."

Jack's gaze was glazed over, uncomprehending – before it seemed to click. And then, much to North's amusement, Jack reacted exactly as a child would.

"No way!" Jack snapped, holding his hands up as if in self-defense. "I'm _sick_, man! Show some compassion! Pills are fine, but—but _syrup?_ You've gotta' be—"

"Believe me, I ain't," Bunny said as he began to pour out the contents into a plastic tablespoon. "But the sooner you drink it, the sooner you get the treat."

Jack scowled and crossed his arms, and now North couldn't resist laughing. "I'm sorry, Jack," he said when the Winter Spirit looked up at him in shock. "You remind me very much of someone I knew once. Go on, take medicine. You get all the cookies if you do."

Bunny's ears flattened against his shoulder. "I'm not so sure about that," Bunny said with hesitancy. "I mean, won't he just get _more_ sick if he takes 'em all?"

"Give it!" Jack cried as soon as Bunny had ended, glowering at the offending medicine as though Pitch were in control of it. "Let's just get this over with. If I can have all the cookies on that plate, it'll be worth stomaching this crap."

North nodded approvingly as Bunny sighed, handing the tablespoon to Jack. As Jack drank it down all in one single gulp, North couldn't help but remember a time before; a time when he had once been an almost-father to a young orphan, no older than Jack…

Jack handed the plastic spoon back to Bunny, scoffing in disgust for only a moment before a stubborn smirk took his face as though he had just beaten the pooka. "So I can have them now, right?" he demanded, eying the cookies, his fingers twitching as if trying to stop himself.

Bunny sighed again and nodded. "Yeah, you can, just—_oi!"_ Jack had snatched the plate and placed it in his lap, realizing that it was still hot a moment too late. He yelped and quickly slid it off, so that it rested next to him, and Bunny snapped, "Be careful, ya nong! And don't eat 'em all at once or too fast, you'll just get a stomach ache!"

"You speaking from experience?" Jack taunted, lifting up three of the cookies in one hand; the chips melted to his fingers, and he ignored their heat. "Please. This is a cakewalk for me."

As Jack and Bunny bickered back and forth, North leaned back, almost satisfied with the outcome. Jack had taken his medicine, would get better if his current behavior was anything to go off of, and Bunny had just unintentionally proven that despite how irritating he found the boy to be sometimes – and no matter how much Bunny would rant on about him – he still cared about him. It was a happy ending.

But there was something else in Jack's expression that North found disconcerting. He was smirking as they exchanged banter, but… oh, what _was_ it?

"Perhaps Bunny and I should get going," North interrupted as he stood, grinning down at Jack. "You must need rest. We shall leave you now."

Jack nodded; and that was when North realized it. "Sure," Jack said with a stifled yawn, as if on cue. "I'd actually really appreciate it. So, thanks."

…Jack was refusing to look him in the eye. North wasn't sure what it meant, but as he closed the door, he resolved that he would discover the reason why.

Perhaps it was time to make a personal visit.

* * *

"What are _you_ doing here?"

North crossed his arms, glaring at the shadow as it tried to stand over him. "Why do you snap at me? I thought we made peace."

_"Peace,"_ Pitch echoed with a sneer, rolling his eyes. "I did Jack a favor, and now we've become allies, Nicholas? Don't insult me."

Well, there was the fact that Pitch had done more than just Jack a favor – he'd done all of the Guardians one when he informed them of Jack's want of food. North bit back the retort. Now was not the time to be arguing with the Nightmare King. Besides, Pitch had a point; there was too much history between them.

"It does not matter—"

"Doesn't _matter?" _Pitch repeated, scowling, Fearlings rushing to make their master seem taller, bigger, darker. "Of _course_ it does! You're in _my_ domain, now, you foolish—"

"Enough." North sighed and ran a hand through his beard. "Pitch, I must ask for you to do me another favor concerning Jack."

"If he's in need of being tucked in to bed, perhaps you'd better call on the Sandman," Pitch replied, seething. "I am in no mood to heed to the whims of a child."

North clamped one hand on the shadow's shoulder, forcing Pitch down to his height. "Jack is afraid again," North said, silencing the spirit effectively. "And because of it he does not make eye contact with me. Can you help?"

"No."

The response was so immediate and so harsh that North's grip fell loose, and his eyes widened, incredulous. He opened his mouth to press his case, but Pitch cut him off. "I informed you of Jack's fear of starvation out of concern for his well-being. This, however, will not help him if you know of it."

"Balakirev," North said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Of course it will! I will help Jack to eliminate fear, and then we can be fam—"

"You're as transparent as glass, old man," Pitch sighed, shaking his head. "You do not believe that all of Jack's fears can be destroyed, do you? Because they can't. Just as yours and mine cannot."

North frowned. "Even so," he said, "we must try. It is our duty, for having left the boy in isolation for so long."

"I'm going to assume here that 'our' is referring to you and your Guardians, because that most certainly does not apply to me." North blinked, immediately curious, but Pitch did not give him the chance to inquire. "Fear is personal, Nicholas. It is the core of every being, what causes flowers to bloom and children to grow. It is an individual, invaluable journey; and you have no right to intrude upon Jack's."

"Core?" North was frowning again, now scratching his chin in deep thought. "As in, our center? That is not true. My center is wonder, Pitch, and Jack's—"

"Is fun, yes, yes, you sentimental old fool, I've heard this spiel before." Pitch summoned some of his nightmare-sand, bringing it in front of him in the form of sphere and holding it as though holding a precious jewel. "You must move past your irritatingly persistent optimism. Now tell me; why do trees grow up?"

"Why do…" North scoffed. "What is this? How is this relevant?"

"Allow me to answer for you, since you seem to not know the answer. Typical." Pitch chuckled. "It is because the tree fears death. The tree must grow vertically if it wishes to reach the sunlight it requires.

"Jack has learned what he requires in order to survive is not sunlight, nor laughter – nor even food, now that he has all the access to it he could ever want." Pitch scowled at North, and something in his look that North thought was a bit condescending. The sphere morphed into a figure; a profile of… a person? "But that thing he knows he cannot live without; well, he's terrified of losing it."

Pitch held up a hand, silencing North once more before he could talk. "That is all you will be getting out of me," Pitch said in a tone that demanded absolute compliance, his sand dissipating. "It's none of your business what he fears and what he does not. If you approach me again with such a subject and the person in question does not have their life on the line, I will see to it that you regret the day you chose to trust me."

Trust? Was that what this was? North certainly wouldn't have called it that, but perhaps it was. Goodness; he'd never imagined he'd trust the King of Nightmares. But right now, Pitch was his only source he could count on (to an extent), so North took what the spirit said in stride.

"Very well," North replied with a small, grateful nod. "You will let me know if you detect anything similar to that fear of starvation in the boy, yes?"

"I don't need to promise to let you _know_ anything!" Pitch snapped back. Fearlings were gathering at his feet, reaching for the Guardian with their slimy, dripping arms. "Get out of my sight, before I allow these creatures to devour you!"

North was quick to leave, well aware that that was no empty threat, and as Pitch watched him stumble out of the dark, he sighed to himself, feeling a pang of resentment towards the younger spirit. He too, once, had had someone he cared that deeply for.

"But some things," Pitch whispered as he caressed one of the oozing, night-black Fearlings, "are better left unknown."

* * *

As North returned to his Workshop, tired and frustrated from his day-long journey, he was almost startled when Jack rushed to his side, a huge grin on his face. "North!" Jack called, skidding to a stop in front of him. "Hey! Phil said we're out of nuts; where do you guys usually get them from? I asked Phil, but I'm not that great at Yeti yet."

…And still, he avoided eye contact. North frowned and put his hands on his hips. "What in the world do you need nuts for, Jack?"

Jack scoffed. "Well, the _cookies,_ of course!" Jack leaned against his staff, but his fingers drummed in systematic patterns; he was restless, and that meant the medicine had worked. "Sandy mentioned that the Yetis make some _killer_ chocolate-and-almond cookies."

North sighed and shook his head, smiling. At least the boy was all right, now, and on his feet again. "Well, even if I did tell you, you would not be pleased with the answer. It would be uncomfortable for you to visit."

"Now, don't be like that," Jack said with a pout. "C'mon! You're not going to give me a wink of an eye and grin and say, 'now that, my boy, that is trade secret!'" Jack imitated North's Russian accent near perfectly, smirking as he did. "Because that wouldn't be _fair._"

North burst into laughter, clapping a hand on Jack's shoulder. "Oh, Jack!" He said, chuckling. "No, no. Is no big secret. It is country of Morocco grows best almonds in all the world! Always, I get some when they are in season."

"Morocco?" Jack repeated, his brow furrowed as he thought. "And – that is…?"

"North Africa," North answered with a wave of his hand. "Just south of Spain."

"Oh." Jack wrinkled his nose. "Ugh, that's hot, isn't it? I just got _un-_sick, the last thing I want to do is have it happen_ again…_"

North snickered. "Is fine. I have them brought here soon, and you can try them. You will be first to know when done."

Jack let out a whoop, fist-bumping the air. "All _right!_ Thanks, Da—"

The almost-word almost slipped from Jack's mouth, and he caught himself, but his eyes widened and his face turned a pinkish hue. North cocked an eyebrow, and when Jack's gaze hit the floor…

It clicked.

"Jack," North said, though the boy did not look up, "I do not mind if you call me that."

Jack sighed and scratched the back of his head – he still did not look up. "No, no, it's not that I'm worried if _you_ mind," he said, wincing. "I mean – don't get me wrong, I'm totally glad that you're cool with it, just don't expect it to be a regular thing. It feels kinda' weird and it just – it just sort of came out."

North blinked. "Then what is matter?" he asked. "You have been acting odd, as of late. If it is not my reaction that concerns you, then…"

"…" Jack frowned and kicked at the ground, as though irritated. "I just – I mean – I feel like my dad would…"

Ah. North smiled and patted Jack's shoulder one last time. "Do not force yourself to not think of me as a father, if it bothers you," North said, and now Jack _did_ look up – though his eyes peeked out only slightly from behind his bangs. "But try to imagine your father, if he were here. Do you really think he would be upset if you found someone else to look after you, now the he cannot?"

Jack gasped; his head shot up so he was looking at North directly, and his jaw fell open. North had hit home. He ruffled the boy's hair, then sucked in a deep breath and stood straight. "Now, I must get back to work!"

North walked off, intending to get right back to directing the Yetis as he had before he'd left. And when Jack Frost came to his side, smiling and _looking him in the eyes,_ before rushing off to make a mess of whatever he could and earn Phil's seal of disapproval – well.

North grinned.

* * *

**Elsa's Note:** Um. Hi. 8D So, uh. Chapter five guys. How'd that happen.

So guess who's been reading the books. That'd be meee. And I love the back-stories so much, especially of Pitch! The poor baby. So, Pitch got to make a special reappearance in this chapter because I love him to death. Also because North is hard to make oyako with Jack and that really helped facilitate it. (No, really, you guys. Jack and North were never going to be cute if I'd just left them to their own devices. Amg.)

THANK YOU EVERYONE WHO'S REVIEWED SO FAR! Without you this fic would probably have just been left at a lowly chapter one or two! All of my love goes out to you. We read each and every review, and all of them mean so much to us. Thank you thank you _thank you!_


	6. Television Dramas (Or Lack Thereof)

_6. Television Dramas (Or Lack Thereof)_

"North. Psst. _North._"

"Oh, please be quiet, Bunny. I'm trying to watch the show."

"What, you actually _like _it, Tooth?"

"…yes…?"

"Haha—and you _don't, _Cottontail?"

"Shut your trap, Frostbite."

"Tooth, I think he's _scared _of sharks."

"Oh! Are you?"

"NO I'M NOT."

"You should have told me! I should have noticed! Oh, I'm so sorry…I just like sharks because—oh, have you seen their _teeth_? They have so many! But, but if you don't want to watch Shark Week, that's okay, too…"

"—no, no. Shark Week's totally fine—"

"—haha—"

"—I will_ kill _you, Frostbite. AND STOP THROWING YOUR STUPID POPCORN KERNELS AT ME; I'M NOT YOUR WASTE BIN."

"Could've fooled me."

"SHH—I can't hear what they're saying—"

"—yeah, Bunny, shut up—"

"—_you _shut up."

"…pfft, did North just snort?"

"I think he's sleeping…"

"Dang it. And he's the closest to the remote."

"I thought you said it was okay to watch Shark Week…?"

"I-it is!"

"Then what's the problem, Cottontail?"

"You. Throwing your dang popcorn at me. Stop it."

"Nope. Not until you get the remote."

"What? Why?"

"Do you know what time it is?"

"Uh…"

"Ice Road Truckers comes on soon! C'mon, man! Best show ever!"

"What?"

"I think you're biased…they don't have particularly clean teeth…truckers in general should improve their dental hygiene…although that, itself, might be a biased statement. I haven't had to collect a truck driver's tooth in a long time…"

"If I'm not going to get the stupid remote for myself, then I'm not going to get it for you. So stop throwin' your popcorn at me and get it yourself."

"Nope. You'll get it."

"_No. _I _won't._"

"Yes, you will. My powers of observation _will _compel you."

"Pfft—powers of observation—my _butt_. You hardly even have a decent aim."

"How do you know? I could be precisely hitting you exactly where I want to."

"Oh, so decorating my fur with your wasted popcorn kernels is like some sort of art?"

"Yep. You catch on so soon."

"You guys, I think Sandy's right. Maybe we should just watch a movie…"

"Oh! Sandy's here? Sorry, buddy, forgot about you for a second."

"A movie? Well, as long as it will make Frostbite's torrent stop, I'm cool with it."

"What movie do we want to watch?"

"Um…well, nuts, I don't know…I don't think I've seen a human movie in forever…"

"Well, we could always watch a Disney movie…?"

"Eh. Fine. Just make sure it's not one of those princess ones."

"Aww…but I love those princess movies…"

"Th-then, um, sure. Fine. We can watch one—that is, if you want to, Tooth."

"What about that one that just came out? Y'know, with the bushy-redhead. And her mom turns into a bear…?"

"_Brave_! Oh! That's such a good one! Let's watch that!"

"One _Brave_, comin' up—courtesy of our very own Sandy."

"Thank you, Sandy!"

"…what, are you saying the three of us look cute? Cuddled on the couch together—we're not—we're not _cuddling_, Sandy—"

"—Bunny, shush! The movie's about to start!"

"But—"

"—_shhhhh._"

"…fine…but we're _not _cuddling…just thought I'd clarify…"

"Psst. Psst."

"_What, _Jack?"

"…I'm out of popcorn."

"…for the sake of your limbs, I will pretend your bowl is still full. It's your own fault anyway, and besides—the movie is starting—so why don't we act like a perfectly _normal _family—and just _shut up to watch it._"

"…ha. Haha!"

"What? What's so funny?"

"You called us a 'family'—"

"—what? No I didn't—"

"—you _so _did, Cottontail—"

"—shhhhh!"

"…well, whatever. My statement stands. Can we just all shut up?"

"Sure."

"Good."

"…after I get some popcorn."

That was only dignified with a restrained growl and several hushed giggles.

* * *

**Crystal's Notes: **Another reprieve. x3 Way shorter than the others, but that was because I wanted to experiment and finally do a dialogue-told-oneshot. So...unfortunately, dialogue can only carry a story so far, and it ended up being far shorter. :D Still.

I hope you all enjoyed! Family fluff-fluff-fluffiness for everyone to go around. And there will be far more to come! :D Thanks for stickin' with us on these silly tufts of adventures so far, and I hope you decide to stay! :D We do so love you guys very much! So thank you for all of your reviews, favorites, and follows so far! As Elsa said last chapter, they are so incredibly appreciated! ;A; Far more than you know!

So from the bottom of my heart, do have a wonderful day!


	7. Dreams

_7. Dreams_

When Pitch finally escapes the Fearlings, the beings that are supposed to be his and his alone to control and to manipulate, he does not know how much time had passed. He is not aware of where he is, only that at _last_ he is free and safe – even if not for very long. He will need perhaps a year's worth or more in order to fully regain his strength, so that he can once again reign over his creatures.

As Pitch stumbles through a full moon ice-cold night in an ice-cold town – a sign that Jack Frost has been here recently, perhaps still is, not a good one, he needs to hide and hide _now,_ not enough energy to run – he notices something.

It is a very vague _something,_ and Pitch is not sure what draws him to it, but without reason he finds himself in the bedroom of a young girl, no older than four or five. She is sleeping, of course, as going by the position of the moon (that mocking, _mocking_ moon) it must be fairly late. He takes a deep, deep breath as he watches her for a moment, and he feels untouchable here, in her presence.

Who is she? He wonders to himself, taking her in. She feels so uncommonly, so uncoincidentally familiar – and yet Pitch cannot place her. He almost walks over to her, but he can see the golden sand dancing around her head, taking the shapes of butterflies and unicorns and fairy princesses, and other equally innocent ideals, and he cannot find it within himself to obliterate such a pure dream.

Rather than that, Pitch scans for a place to hide. Underneath a bed is what would be best, but too close and he might give in. Instead he opts for the closet, ducking into the back, behind layers and layers of clothing, where there will always be shadows.

And for now he rests, waiting and hoping no one will find him.

* * *

Pitch wakes up – had he really fallen asleep? What nightmares he must have had – though it is not because his brain has commanded him to. It is not a natural awakening.

It is because there, in front of him, having pushed aside layers and layers of clothing, is the young girl, staring at him with wide eyes. Pitch's stomach turns as he stands – for he must inspire such fear in her, and though that should empower him, it only makes him feel ever more helpless, unable to change his effect on children – but before he can leave, she utters one single word:

"Pretty!"

The word is so simple, so innocent, and so filled with genuine joy that Pitch flinches. He stares down at her, uncomprehending, and she grins back up at him. Now that he stops to notice, he can see her blond hair and her bright, curious green eyes – or rather, eye, as her bedhead keeps the other from view.

She is even more familiar now, standing in the blinding and painful sunlight that enters from the window, and he is certain he has seen her before. But that is not as disconcerting to him as is the fact that she can _see him._ And when she reaches forward, presses her hand against his robe, Pitch lets out a small gasp at the touch.

She can _touch him._

_She believes, she believes!_

Perhaps this is what has called to him; her belief, so strong and so powerful now that Pitch cannot understand it.

But he does not question it. Knowing and experiencing such kindness and warmth is more than enough to fill him with confidence.

"Sophie!" A stray voice calls, and a boy enters the room. He has brown hair, piercing eyes, and Pitch recognizes that child right away. His nose flares in anger, for only one thought pervades his mind: _I am like this because of him, it's _his_ fault, I should do away with him_—"Come on, Mom's gonna take us to the park."

"Almost ready!" she calls, and Pitch can hear him mutter something to the effect of "you're not even out of your PJ's," but he exits without another word.

Something inside of Pitch sinks. The little boy he hates and despises so much cannot even see him anymore.

How … how ironic.

But Sophie – yes, that is her name, the brat's sister – looks back at Pitch, and she giggles. "Wait for me," she whispers to him, as though it is a very sacred secret, and she grabs a jacket and a pair of pants before she closes the closet door, encasing him in darkness save for the crack between the door.

Pitch can't help it—he smiles. It is a very small, almost unnoticeable smile, even for him. But it is there and it is existent, if only for that fleeting moment.

Somehow she knew he would prefer the dark to the light.

Somehow she believed but she was not afraid.

Pitch had never been more grateful to any living being in all his life as he was to her at that moment.

* * *

Sophie returns at twilight, and as she opens the door, Pitch can see Jack Frost flying by outside the window, a huge smile on his face, fearless, carefree – completely and entirely everything Pitch wishes he could be.

But it is only a brief flash. His observation of the boy he envies is wiped from his mind when he recognizes a dark discoloration in Sophie's skin. What is that called? He wonders to himself, as he gazes into her tear-filled eyes.

"I-I got hurt," she mumbles out, but she tries to smile at him as she rubs her bruise. "But I'm back."

This is far more than just a simple accident, Pitch can feel it; she is afraid, though again, not of him. She is afraid of something more, and if Pitch were stronger he would be able to determine what it was.

"How did it happen?"

It is the first time he's spoken to her, he realizes. His voice is raw and he can't remember the last time he used it for something other than scream. But she does not know, or perhaps it is not important to her, and all she can do is shake her head.

Pitch does something that he had long ago forbidden himself from doing. He closes his eyes, and opens his arms, and without hesitation she runs into his embrace, trembling, and Pitch for the first time can feel how small she is, how tiny and how terrified.

He wraps his arms around her, and he can feel her trying not to cry, but she does anyway. He doesn't mind so much.

That very night, once Pitch is certain her dreams are nightmare-free, he leaves the household. His physical connection with Sophie seems to have opened up one of his senses, and he can feel what her fear is directed toward.

Needless to say, the girl Sophie was concerned about does not bother her anymore.

* * *

The next night, Sophie enters the closet all by herself, with a huge bag. She closes the door behind her, and they are completely alone, in a complete darkness. Pitch is confused for only a moment.

She turns on a small light, handheld, some type of electrical lamp, and sets it to the right of her. Then once again she pushes aside the layers and layers of clothing, before she sits down right in front of him.

"Can I see your hands, please?" she asks, grinning up at him. Pitch cocks an eyebrow. No doubt that grin was influenced by a certain Winter Spirit.

"No," he says to her. He is a man, after all, and men do not let little girls play with their hands.

Sophie's bottom lip pushes out into a pout, her eyes water, and she sniffs. Pitch glances to her bag, unable to see its contents, and sighs.

"Oh, very well. Just stop—"

"_Yay!"_ Sophie squeals and takes his hand, before she also takes out a small bottle of sparkling pink nail polish. Pitch stares, dumbfounded, as he finishes his sentence.

"… crying."

When she retires for the night some fifteen minutes later, Pitch stares down at his fingers and the nightlight she'd left behind for him. They are a shade darker than the paint should be, a shade duller. It's his fault – though he doesn't want it to be.

She reminds him of someone. No matter how embarrassing the polish may be, or how messily it may have been done, it's not as if anyone could see him with it other than her. So he leaves it on.

She's delighted when she sees, almost twenty-four hours later, that he has not taken it off.

* * *

A week passes, then a month. Then five.

Pitch cannot bring himself to leave her room for too long. He tries, oh how he _tries._ But something always draws him back. He cannot help it; he is constantly badgering himself. _Is she okay? Has Jaime been good to her? Is that bully rising up again?_

He can't force himself to stop caring. He understands Jack a bit more, now; he understands how Jack could keep returning to Jaime Bennett, despite never making a connection. He understands what it means to care for a mortal.

He has, of course, gotten more powerful. He has begun to spread nightmares again, but only small ones, careful when he goes out at night to change cities and households every time, to prevent the Sandman from noticing that he has returned.

The nightmares are mostly harmless, anyway; they gather belief for him, and as such he can feel his power returning. Slowly but surely, he will be able to work again, gathering children's darkest fears and storing them away forever.

One of these nights, as he is working, he feels a sudden slip of his control on Sophie's fear. Normally he can keep it reigned in, because he thinks he knows her well enough to prevent her from becoming too affected.

He is in China when he feels that sudden spike, like a sharp jab in his side. Shanghai. He wastes no time in summoning some of his nightmare sand to transport him back to Burgess posthaste.

When he arrives, she is curled in her bed, her blankets and sheets twisted. She cries out, surrounded by Fearlings. Pitch is powerful enough now to dispel the six or so of the monsters without much trouble, but it does not soothe her.

She is being plagued by something else, he concludes. The Fearlings were merely drawn here by it.

Her cries summon her mother and brother, and they hold her arm, but one of her eyes peeks open and spots Pitch. She reaches forward, toward him, and Pitch's heart falls.

He takes her hand, and as her mother rushes to the phone, Sophie's eyes never leave Pitch. He can hear their mother speaking in high tones and hiccups, though he cannot make out what she is saying. Jaime, who stays right there, has his gaze on his sister – as protective as Pitch could ever ask of him.

Then their mother hurries them out, still on the phone as she picks up her little girl. Pitch has to release Sophie's hand at this point, which only makes her sob.

He follows them. Their mother takes the two of them to a children's hospital down the street, a place Pitch savored during his time in power because it was a place full of fear. Now he felt unwelcome, insecure, _afraid_; what were they doing here?

Sophie is taken behind a closed door. Though Pitch is invisible, he cannot pass through solid objects. So he waits, and his very presence worsens the family's fears. He does not care.

When a doctor emerges, all three of them stand up. The news is bad. The mother bursts into tears. Jaime does not. He takes his mother's hand, and they head into the room to see to Sophie.

Pitch wishes he had the courage to do so, but he does not. Instead, he leaves, fleeing to his former lair.

And for the first time in months, he screams again. He screams out his pain, curses fate, damns Mother Nature – for now he hates no one more.

The Fearlings gather at his side, and at the moment he cannot push them away. He lets them overcome him, lets them refresh him.

He will stay away from the Bennett household for a while.

* * *

But yet again, he cannot leave for long. So instead he waits his longest yet, a whole three months away from her. And only then does he give in to his incessant fretting that feels somehow as if it was that of a parent.

She's changed. He expected she would, but seeing the confirmation is enough to knock the wind out of him. Her hair's different. Most of it is gone, likely due to the chemotherapy (as Pitch has discovered the word to be), but still there are some tufts fighting rather resiliently against the treatment.

She's smiling, in her sleep, as she dreams of cotton candy and carnival fairs and Jaime giving her piggyback rides. She seems so much smaller than he remembers. Despite her troubled life, despite how sudden and frantic and twisted it has become, she can still rest in her peaceful imaginations.

And so Pitch, who is the King of Nightmares and the Lord of Fear, does the only thing he can think of.

He shatters her dream with his impure touch, and quickly it reforms into something terrible and something fierce. Sophie cringes and clutches her stuffed rabbit tighter to her as she becomes haunted by malevolent unicorns and an evil Jack Frost.

Pitch watches and he stands guard until morning light, determined to prevent any Fearlings from entering the room. He does this night after night, filling her sleep with nightmares and wrong-doings and darkness, so much so that it becomes hard for her to separate the real from the not. And night after night, he stays by her side, out of sight but never out of reach.

When the nightmares become too much for her to bear, and she lashes out physically against what is not, Pitch steps forward and holds her, his heart trembling with guilt and self-doubt. But his touch is fleeting, and by the time she is comforted and realizes she is being held he is gone.

There is method to his madness, method that Pitch keeps secret. He does not do what he does without a purpose. Right now he intends to wedge her living thoughts on the horrors he sends her in the night, so that she may not remember or recognize the horrors of her life.

Despite this - despite it _all_ - Pitch slays any Fearlings who so much as peek into her window. There are some things he will not allow, and he knows, he can _feel_ how they want to consume her. Never, never does he give them the chance, and never does he give them forgiveness for yearning for her.

He thinks she is aware, though. During the daytime she draws, and while at first Pitch could see her drawing typical not-quite-toddler not-quite-child ideals, misshapen horses and oddly-proportioned people, she is quick to forget such things.

Instead, she starts to tend towards the charcoal over the crayon, and when she draws she draws him. He does not know how she knows, only that she does. He stays far out of sight, tucked away in the smallest shadows, and she never once catches sight of him.

But she still believes. After all this time and after all he's done, she still believes. Her nightly terrors give him almost as much strength as that belief, and he must be more careful to not let her see him.

He is growing stronger, and with that, so is his influence over her.

He is not sure whether he likes that or not.

* * *

One day, as Pitch is allowing himself closer to her than he typically does, he notices that she has taken to reading. The stories she chooses are odd for her age: Shelley's _Frankenstein,_ Stoker's _Dracula,_ Poe's "The Tell-Tale Heart." She is fascinated with such dark subjects, though Pitch cannot tell if she truly understands their meanings or the words used to convey them.

She smiles as she reads them, lying on her bed as she has taken to preferring over running around and playing. From Pitch's observation, she prefers to please her mother rather than defy her, despite how overbearing the woman has become.

But this time, as she reads (and Pitch too over her shoulder, not too close but not too far), Pitch hears a small jingle in the air. At first he turns his head, gazing out the window in confusion. It was not nearly Christmas, so what in the world was …

It was snowing outside, yet it was only mid-October. In that instant, Pitch senses Jack Frost, and he dives back into the shadows and retreats to the closet, not a moment too soon. Jack opens the window and hops in, only just missing Pitch's movement.

"Hey, Sophie!" He says with a smile on his face. Sophie hops up, grinning at the boy and returning the greeting. He swings against his staff, fidgeting with it, before he finally asks what he came here for. "So, uh, you - you want to come outside and play with me and Jaime today?"

Sophie blinks, then shakes her head. "Nuh-uh." She sets the book aside as she sits on her bed, her legs swinging. "Mommy doesn't let me go outside without her."

"Ah." Jack's forehead crinkles as his eyes frown, but still he keeps that godforsaken smile on his face and it _irritates_ Pitch just _so_, pushes his buttons in all the right places. As if it is _Jack's_ responsibility to give her hope; as if it is _Jack's_ _right_ to try to give her that when Pitch is almost certain there is none.

Sophie seems to sense Jack's worry, and she just grins at him. "It's okay!" She puts her hands on her knees, laughing. "I got lots of time and lots to draw! And I can read pretty good now!"

"You draw?" Jack's eyes are alight again, and he chuckles. "Do you mind if I take a look?"

"Sure!" Sophie leans over to the edge of her bed, pulling the mattress back and retrieving the sketchbook she'd hidden. (Her mother would scold her, Pitch knows, for that will make an imprint in the mattress if she leaves it there for too long.) She hands it to Jack, and on the cover she's doodled butterflies and flowers in purple, blue, and green permanent markers. It's enough to make Jack let loose a stray giggle, his hand going to his mouth as if trying to keep it in. His reaction makes her grin.

So he opens it, and because Jack's back is now to the closet, Pitch leans in just a bit closer, peers out just a bit more, squints a little harder. The first drawing is of a rather impressively proportionate unicorn (with the exception of the horn; it's rather large, given the size of the head). Jack smirks and flips to the next; a fairy, maybe one of Tooth's; the next is a pink cloud eating an ice cream cone.

"Wow, Sophie," Jack says, pride sparkling in his eyes as he flips to another. "These are really good …"

His voice trails off when he flips the page again. Pitch can see now one of Sophie's first charcoal drawings. It's the first of _him_ as well; she draws his hair as spiked, his nose a bit more oblong than it is, his arms skinnier and his robe longer and lower-cut. Jack Frost stares at it for a moment, and then he turns to the next.

Then the next, and the next, and the next; with each successive drawing, Pitch sees that his own features become more defined and more realistic, and more charcoal is used with each. In one particular drawing, Sophie had been angry, though Pitch had not known why. She had used two entire sticks of charcoal as she drew the evil Jack from her dreams assaulting two other children with blackened snowballs, surrounded by the dark.

Pitch then notices something he had not before. She still chose to draw him, in this picture; lying in the corner with a grin on his face.

Jack drops the sketchbook without warning, his breathing heavy and uneven. Sophie frowns at this, and moves to pick up the book—

The Winter Spirit beats her to it. He snatches it up, flips it to the next page, and points directly at her image of Pitch Black. "Do you know who this is?" he demands, and Pitch can see how he shakes even from the meager distance that separates them. "Do you?"

"Yeah." Sophie nods once, and Pitch's stomach drops as he realizes that she is about to tell him _everything._ "He used to come here once. I don't remember his name, though. Oh, but he gives me dreams now."

"Dreams," Jack echoes in a hollow voice, and he turns back to the one of his malevolent self. "When you say dreams, you mean like, dreams like _this?_"

She nods again, every one of her motions signaling total innocence. "Yeah. But he used to be here all the time. He let me paint his nails sometimes."

_Sometimes_ is an exaggeration, but Jack doesn't even notice the comment. He begins to pace, back and forth, the notebook still in one hand and the other running through his hair. Part of Pitch is a bit hurt—because after all, they are _not enemies _at this point, and Pitch has made sure to stay out of the way of the Guardians. Jack should have nothing against him.

… oh, wait. Except Jack might be reaching the conclusion that Pitch was trying to regain the power he once had. That might not end well.

"Can I take this with me?" Jack asks, already moving for the window. "I need to tell the others—"

"_No!"_

Sophie cries out, reaching, her arm stretched across and over the bed, but Jack either doesn't hear her or doesn't care; he's gone in a flash, heading for the North Pole.

Sophie stays outstretched for a moment more, before she drops, lying on her bed and sighing. She does not cry, but Pitch can tell how much the sketchbook meant to her, and he can feel how empty she is without it.

So once again, Pitch shoots her a nightmare, sending her into a naptime that would earn him her mother's gratitude. He hopes that it will at least temporarily ease the strain of losing such a precious item. And then—

Then Pitch flees, determined to have gathered enough power to defend himself in case the Guardians decide he is a threat once more.

He does not stay long enough to see that Sophie's nightmare is one of his disappearance.

* * *

Sandy flinches, sensing that something is not quite as it should be. Pitch gives nightmares—he understands and respects this, and so the two of them often keep clear of each other—but because Sandy is the King of Dreams and Lord of Fulfillment, he senses a shift in Pitch's aura.

It is not strange, or perhaps not unexpected. Pitch has been almost constantly changing within the past few years, ever since he returned from wherever he was after his defeat. His most heartfelt desires have changed. At first his entire being was consumed with _escape, escape, escape;_ and though Sandy would have tried to help him, he was not entirely sure what Pitch was trying to escape from.

Now, Sandy can feel the dream becoming clearer, sharper. So Sandy allows his curiosity to get the better of him, and he allows the sand to flow and form the spirit's dream in front of him.

To his surprise, the sand creates the image of a young girl. She smiles and plays, and Sandy would say that she couldn't be much younger than the age Jaime was when they first met him.

His forehead crinkles and his arm crosses. Who in the world could she be? Mother Nature, perhaps?—no, Mother Nature is far older than that. He understands the intent of the dream, to wish and yearn for the safety and happiness of another. He has seen it many times in siblings' and in the other Guardians' dreams.

Sandy cannot pinpoint her identity, and the moment he stops trying, a smile breaks across his face, full and wide. Ah, what wonderful news! Regardless of who she is, the message is the same: Pitch has truly changed! Pitch cares for a child, or perhaps just children in general, and if he desires something such as this then he is no longer a threat.

Without waiting, Sandy commands the sand to spin itself for at least the next few countries, and then he summons an aeroplane and takes to the skies. After relaying the news, he'll return and finish his work for the night.

It is too exciting to wait until he's done.

* * *

"But _North!"_

When Sandy arrives, he's a bit disconcerted at the sounds of chaos. The yetis are working diligently, yelling and shouting at each other as they build exact replicas of thousands of models. But beyond that, Sandy hears Jack yelling and worry etched into his voice.

He heads for the Globe, where of course he finds the other Guardians have gathered, though a bit informally, it seems. He frowns when he joins them, a question mark above his head.

Bunny notices him and clears his throat. "Jack's got a - a _development_ to report on." Then he nods, and Jack turns to the Sandman, holding up a sketchbook.

Sandy stares at it for a moment, and all he can see is a drawing of Pitch Black. Then Jack elaborates.

"This was Sophie's." Jack flips it from page to page, and each one contains a sketch of the Bogeyman. Sandy's jaw drops - because _of course_ it was! That makes sense, that must be who the girl was - but Jack takes his reaction as negative and he nods. "Pitch must be making some kind of comeback. We've got to do something."

"No," North says sternly, and Sandy loses the floor before he even has it as he tries to communicate what he's found. "Pitch gives her a nightmare, she gets a bit taken with it. To me, it seems more her problem than ours. Remember, Jack—"

"I know, I know!" Jack snaps, his fists clenching tightly. "We can't interfere with the personal lives of children, I _know!_ But …!"

"I'm with Jack," Bunny says, moving so he's standing close to the Winter Spirit. "Sophie doesn't draw stuff like that on her own. Whatever Pitch's up to, it's best we take him out _now,_ before somethin' bad happens."

Sandy jumps up and down, waving a small flag of sand above his head as he tries to catch their attention. Tooth flutters back and forth between the two sides that now have been formed, her brow furrowed in indecision. Sandy huffs, and glances around for one of the elves.

North scoffs. "What are you talking about? Pitch has played nice for few years now. Not near long enough to regain strength. He will be quiet for few more decades, at least!"

None of the elves are anywhere to be seen. Sandy jumps up again, this time catching Tooth's hand as she flies over him. She stops and turns to him, and when he makes various shapes in quick succession - too quick for her, it seems - she understands.

"Guys!" She calls, breaking the debate before it can get as heated as Sandy imagined it had been before he entered. "Sandy has something he wants to say!"

Sandy nods at her gratefully as the other Guardians turn their attention towards him, silent for the first time this gathering. He creates a God's eye above his head—a symbol the others had come to learn he associates with _dreams_—followed by a clear profile of Pitch.

"What about them, Sandy?" Bunny replies, his arms crossed. "You learn about a plan of his or something?"

Sandy scowls at Bunny and raises his index finger to his lips, his expression perhaps a bit harsher than he'd intended, but nonetheless the Pooka's ears fall flat and he silences. Now Sandy continues, creating images of children—all different kinds, all different ages and all different genders—but most importantly, all _smiling._

When his sand falls, confusion flits about all of the Guardians' faces. Sandy frowns in thought, his mind whirling as he tries to think of another way to communicate what he's trying to say—but then Tooth gets it.

"He's …" She bites her lip, hesitating, no doubt wondering if she's interpreting him correctly. "You're saying—Pitch has changed?"

Sandy nods then, a huge grin spreading across his face. Yes, yes! Pitch is no longer bad!—

"You've gotta be _kidding_ me!"

All of them then turn to Jack, whose look is incredulous, and he holds up Sophie's sketchbook as though it is a weapon. "Then what's this?!" he demands, angry and unsympathetic. "If Pitch really does _care_—which, by the way, we should _all_ doubt—then what is going on with her?! Huh?!"

Sandy tries to explain quickly, figures above his head appearing and vanishing—the God's eye, smiles, a young girl, holding hands—but Jack just groans and shakes his head. "Whatever. Listen, Sandy, this … he's manipulating her. I don't know how and I don't know why, but whatever the case, she's in danger."

To everyone's surprise, it's Bunny who speaks up next. "Maybe the little guy's right."

When Jack spins to Bunny, his jaw agape, Bunny backpedals and tries to explain. "I don't know about you all, but I've been noticin' that Pitch's been acting differently. Not quite as … crikey. Malevolent, I guess?"

"Not so much activity," Tooth says, nodding along. Bunny nods back to her, grateful.

"And he hasn't been at his old lair recently," he goes on. "I checked just last week, to make sure it wasn't bein' put to use. There's actually _dust_ startin' to gather."

"He has found new home," North realizes, his eyes widening. "So, he has found home with Sophie?"

There's silence throughout the group for several long, thoughtful moments, and then Jack clears his throat. "Only one way to find out," he says, though he seems to be not nearly as opposed to the idea of Pitch's goodness.

Sandy smiles. Perhaps soon, Pitch could even become a trusted ally of theirs. What an exciting thought!

But before that could be decided, they would have to find him. And that was no easy task.

* * *

"Hey, are you still there?"

…

"I miss you, you know. Just sometimes."

…

Sophie lets out a sigh and closes the closet door behind her. "Was that what was wrong? Do you only come out in the dark now?"

…

"Well." Sophie huffs and crosses her arms. "That's just mean, you know."

…

"I'm going to go ahead and think you can hear me. So don't, uh, don't poof away, okay? I like you."

…

"No matter what Jack says. He said you were a big dope-face and that you like to wear girl shoes. I, uh, don't think either's too bad. I think girl shoes would look cool on you."

…

"Jack can be mean, when he's not trying to be. Like, um, I get it, and, I-I think I get him, but then he goes and does stuff like—stuff, you know, stuff that's just so _mean._"

…

She sighs and collapses onto the ground, curling up against a discarded coat. "I think my drawings're cool," she mutters into it, though her voice is muffled. "If you give me cool ideas for drawings, then I want you to stay."

…

To her immense surprise, she feels a hand on her shoulder. Sophie starts and spins around, her eyes wide—and a huge grin takes her face.

"Pitch!"

Pitch's eyes are deeper than she remembers, darker, and he seems taller, too—but none of that matters, because he's _back._ And the first thing she can think to do when she sees him is hug him tightly, though she barely reaches his knees, and he kneels down to her height and hugs her back.

"Thank you," he whispers to her, and she giggles as his breath hits her ear. It tickles.

"You're welcome!" she replies, her voice cheery, though she does not quite understand what he's thanking her for. All she did was talk to him. But, as her mother always says, sometimes it's the little things that are the biggest.

He chuckles at her reaction, and when he pulls away from the embrace, his hand still on her shoulder, she can see a smile on his face. Now, she'd seen him smile before—the sorry, half-hearted things that he'd made when he was amused at something she'd done. But this, this was different. _This_ was genuine. Her heart warms and all she wants to do is hug him again, and so she does.

Then the closet door opens.

* * *

Sandy rejoices when he sees how close Pitch and Sophie are. He wants to turn to the others and say, "Ha! I told you so! I did, didn't I!" But he doesn't, because, of course, he can't speak. But he makes sure that his look says it all, and he makes sure they all make eye contact with him before they say anything.

Pitch stands then, and his stance is defensive, though Sandy doesn't miss that he stands in front of the young girl. And neither does North, or Bunny, or Tooth or Jack. And Sandy's grin widens.

"Whatever you are going to do to me," Pitch says, a scowl on his face, "I would like to request you give it back."

And then everyone is glancing at each other, confused. Sandy's confused, too, because he doesn't know what they've taken—and then Jack takes a step out, holding the sketchbook. "Are you talking about this?" he asks, perplexed.

Pitch nods once. He doesn't seem the slight bit embarrassed, Sandy notes, to be standing up for a child. "It wasn't very nice to just snatch it away from her like that, Frost. Not very _Guardian_-like at all."

Jack flushes in shame and pulls his hood over his head. "Yeah," he mumbles, looking upset with himself. "I guess it wasn't." Then he kneels down to Sophie's height, extending the item towards her. "Sorry about that."

Sophie takes the sketchbook from him, and smiles. "It's okay," she says, trying to lighten the mood. Everyone looks so sad, and she just wants them to be happy. "You can mess up sometimes too. I get it."

Pitch has this expression on his face that very clearly reads, 'The Guardians aren't attacking me on sight so I'm pretty sure I missed something.' In response to that, North steps forward and puts a hand on his shoulder.

"Pitch," North says with a smile, "you are something else."

Sandy thinks that describes the King of Nightmares rather well. _'Something else.'_ If there was anything that he was, it was most certainly that.

Pitch glances to the hand on his shoulder, and then back up at North. He takes a deep breath, before he says, "Nicholas, if this is about—"

"About what?" North interrupts with a wave of his hand. "Is about nothing. Pitch, you are good man at center. What is there exactly, eh, is not important."

Pitch furrows his brow and asks, "Then tell me, old man, what is it that you consider to be _'important?'"  
_

"Ah!" North laughs and nods, patting Pitch's back. "Is good question. What is important, is that Bogeyman is not monster, yes?"

Pitch sucks in a sharp breath and glances to all the other Guardians. Bunny's smiling, Jack's avoiding his gaze, and Tooth has this look in her eye that Sandy thinks means she can't wait for Pitch to become a Guardian. (Sandy doubts that will ever happen. The Man in the Moon can be a bit choosy, after all.)

As for the Sandman himself—he's smiling, too, but he actually waves at Pitch. This, he finds, is a universal symbol that stands for, _you are welcome among us._

Sophie tugs on Pitch's robe, grabbing his attention. Pitch looks down to her, and she says, "So, does this mean you can play with me more often?"

Pitch stares at her for a moment, awestruck—and then he bursts into laughter, clutching his abdomen as though it were a lifeline.

Pitch, the King of Nightmares, has been reduced to a giggle-fit by one small child and five of the world's (arguably) most powerful heroes.

It is a tender sight.

* * *

Not a lot changes after that. Pitch is still the King of Nightmares, after all, so every night he scours the world in search of fears; fears that sometimes he devours and sometimes he allows to consume. And no matter what, each night he returns with at least one new believer.

Pitch still stays with Sophie. He's become accustomed to the small closet in her room, and despite all of the jokes that Jack's made about his new abode, Sophie enjoys his presence. So he doesn't mind all that.

Sophie will grow up. Somehow, miraculously, they were able to perform surgery and get the last bit of the disease out of her. She will live. She will laugh and play and dance and have a first kiss and find her true love. No one is happier about this than Pitch—except for maybe Jaime, but as her big brother, he doesn't count.

But, as Sandy watches Pitch and Sophie from far above the clouds, Sandy has just one thought:

Nobody had better say that he never made anyone's dream come true.

* * *

**Elsa's Note:** Ow this was so much longer than it was supposed to be ow ow I'm sorry followers please don't hurt me OTL.

But I hope you all enjoyed this nonetheless! ;; It was my attempt at being cute, though I'm well aware there were some dark parts in there as well. (Also I apologize for the formatting because omg I think it'd look so much smoother with just one - instead of the huge long - x5034 that makes me put there. Gahh /rips hair out)

To clarify: this story begins _before_ chapter one but ends _after._ So Pitch would have become their ally, mmm... probably during the five-month time-skip. c: I realize that might be a bit confusing!

Anyway, all feedback is much appreciated!


	8. As Luck Would Have It

_8. As Luck Would Have It_

This wasn't what Jack had envisioned when North had said they were going to an all-night "party" at Patrick the Leprechaun's.

"Party," Jack defined the way the current generation did. Most likely, he figured it involved alcohol. Dancing. Lights. Attraction, perhaps. Drunkenness. And general, silly, wacky behavior that normally never saw the light of day. (That was how most of them spent St. Patrick's Day anyway, right?)

He figured that the leprechaun named after the saint and who kept the holiday going would define it in the same way, too.

When he saw, however, the lovely forest clearing decked with three-leaf clover hanging lanterns, a table full of decadent fruits and food both savory and sweet, a fiddle, flute, guitar and accordion tucked away to the side for music—he quickly deduced that no, Patty's definition of "party" must have been quite different.

And as the Guardian of Fun, he decided to discover exactly what that definition was.

"Patty," he called to the leprechaun—_Haha, Patty's Party, _he mused to himself as soon as he realized the alliteration—and neared him once his fellow Guardians high-tailed it to the table of food. "What are we gonna do all night? 'Cuz, like, no offense…but all I see is grass."

The leprechaun looked up and grinned, round cheeks touched red with ever-present happiness. "Why, we're goin' ta _dance, _m'boy. Don'tcha know tha'?"

Jack's eyes flickered over to the instruments on the side—_certainly not speakers or soundboards—_and he laughed. "Well, yeah. That, I figured. But I mean…" He looked around at his friends, who were happily gorging their faces and laughing at one another, completely comfortable with this (_Well, no duh; that's because they've done this before, wombat,_ he chided himself). This was his first official St. Patrick's Day spent with them.

(Apparently, heading over to Patty's was the tradition for the Guardians, as North had informed him two days ago.)

Jack had no idea what to expect. He'd never seen the Guardians dance before. Tooth looked especially excited, for some odd reason; maybe she just liked dancing. Jack didn't know just yet. _But, _he figured, _how bad can it be?_

Well, it was still formidable enough that it made him nervous. He stuck his hands in his sweatshirt pockets (green for the holiday; North had told him that it was customary to wear green for the party, so like everyone else, he decked out in the color as much as he could, although truth be told, he wasn't a huge fan of it) and also neared the table, spearing some fruit with a stick to munch on as he tried to ignore the bugs still squirming around in his stomach.

There was something very…personal about dancing. Very telling. Expressive. Almost like as soon as you let your body do the moving, you were baring your soul to the world in a way that was pure and you.

And even while Jack was completely comfortable with his Guardian friends (had to be, since by now, they'd been housing together for almost a month), that kind of letting-go was, for some odd reason, still a little bit unnerving.

"Jack! Jack! Are you excited for your first céili with us?" Toothiana cried as she latched onto his shoulders, wings buzzing a pleasant, rapid hum.

Startled, Jack laughed and turned away from the table to face her, the fairy releasing him as he did so. Her hands clasped themselves together in front of her as she awaited his response. "Sure! But mind telling me what's a céili, first? Just, y'know, so I know what I'm getting myself into?"

"Oh! That's the party!" Tooth informed, grinning. "Patty calls it a céili because…uh…it's an Irish thing, I think…right, Patty?"

"Yer righ', y'are!" said the leprechaun as he nabbed a grape or two from the table, popping them in his mouth. "A céili, Jack, is a traditional Gaelic social gathrin'. Us Irish and the Scots still have 'em once in a while fer special events. Stuff like this."

That made sense. "So let me guess. At a 'céili,' usually, you dance."

"Right again!" Patrick's eyes sparkled joyfully as he finished a tart he had grabbed. "See, yer catchin' on."

Jack grinned, feeling his chest subconsciously swell with pride at the praise. Trying to hide it, he filled a cup with green-colored punch (he was interested to see what flavor it _really _was) and took a casual sip (_Ah, lemonade. Should've figured, _he noted). "So why's it called a céili?"

"Well, it came from the ol' Irish 'céle,' which means 'companion.' Overtime…well, I guess it jus' came ta represent a time with friends."

Jack hummed. Made sense. It, also, somehow, seemed incredibly sweet (and that wasn't just the juice he was talking about—although the drink_ could_ use a bit more acidity, he thought).

"Now," Patrick spoke up again, wiping his hands free of the crumbs they had gathered. "Because you've never been to one of these before, I'm goin' ta guess ye've never done a Ceili dance before, either." His blue eyes were curious, daring the Guardian to correct him if he was wrong, but Jack could only shake his head.

"Actually," he cuckled. "I don't have any idea what you're a talking about, so no—I haven't, um—done a Ceili dance before." What even _was _that?

"Oh!" Tooth jumped at the opportunity, waving her hand as she buzzed left and right of their leprechaun friend, all the while calling out, "I'll teach him the seven steps and the three's for the lead around and—and—and the point-hop-toe-step—so he can do the beginner's reel—and then the promenade and set—"

Wait, what?

Patrick only laughed at Jack's lost expression. "Not all so fast, lass. You've clearly lost 'im, already!"

Tooth covered her mouth with curled hands meekly, flushing. "Sorry…I just…oh, this is so exciting to have someone else join us! You know what this means, Patty? We can finally do some of those six-hand dances that you've been teaching us properly! We've got enough people, now!"

Patrick also seemed delighted by this, although at Jack's clueless gaze, he tempered it down somewhat. "We do! Yer righ', but we can't just throw the poor boy in without instruction firs'. Some o' those Ceili dances are for more intermediate and skilled dancers. But…we migh' be able to get him to do the three-hand Galway Reel. It's not too hard once ya get the hang of it…"

"Yes, yes, yes, yes!" Tooth cheered, grabbing Jack's hand and leading him to the clearing immediately. "Oh, please! Let's start now! Can we?"

"Wait—" Jack laughed nervously, feeling all of a sudden dizzy and rushed.

"We got all night, Tooth!" North spoke up, chiding, but gentle; pure fondness lied in his blue eyes, knowing how much she looked forward to the one night all year every single Guardian took off of duties and responsibilities to let go and dance cares away. "No hurry, _da_?"

"Oh! But!" Tooth huffed impatiently, but relented, letting go of their newest Guardian's hand. She crossed her arms in front of her green-feather-dyed chest almost petulantly. "Fine."

"What you _can _do, though, is teach 'im that song," Patrick spoke up, putting a slice of cheese on a cracker. "Y'know, lass, the one we sing at midnigh'?"

Tooth cheered, clasping her hands together in excitement again. "Oh! Oh! That's a great idea! Why didn't I think of that?" Turning, she grasped the winter spirit's hand and proceeded to pull him over to the instruments. "The sheet music should be here somewhere…" she muttered as she then reached among them with her hand.

Jack scratched his head, unable to help feeling awkward as he waited for her to find it. "Um…what song is it, Tooth? 'Cuz, y'know, I might just already know it..." He wasn't an idiot, after all. He knew what contemporary songs were buzzing around the rest of the world.

The fairy grinned at him over her shoulder. "Well, it's our own special rendition of _Simple Gifts_, with one final chorus of _Lord of the Dance_ to wrap it up. Any of those sound familiar?"

Hm.

"Familiar, yes," Jack replied slowly. And that was true—he could recall a vague melody to the songs mentioned—but as for the lyrics that accompanied them? "…I don't think I've actually heard them sung…?"

Tooth smiled brightly as her hand finally found the black folder and pulled it free of its confines, turning to the Guardian of Fun. "Well! Not to worry, because I've just found them! Here."

What she plopped down in Jack's hand looked faintly like another language. Black lines, black dots, black sticks with words scattered throughout, separated and oddly spaced with hyphens sometimes in-between. The winter spirit frowned at it, tilted it one way and another, before shaking his head helplessly, chuckling, "Look, Tooth, I don't know how to read—"

"—oh, but there's more! There's two more pages!" And with that, she shoved two more similar jibberish-filled pages into his hands.

Jack looked at them once more, before sighing. "Okay. But what does this all mean…?"

"Oh! That's easy. Don't worry about all the notes and stuff; all _you_ need to pay attention to is the words. Patty plays the fiddle when we sing, and Sandy plays the flute, so _they _have to read the music—although I think they know it by heart by now—so you just sing, okay?"

Jack stared at her for a moment. The fairy made it sound so easy, so trouble-free, as if it weren't something to be nervous about—singing.

Jack was faintly sure not everyone was comfortable with their singing voices like she apparently was.

He cleared his throat, looking at the pages again. "O…kay…sounds great. But what if I'm not good at singing?" The winter spirit laughed nervously, lifting his eyes to Tooth's amused ones. "I mean, admit it, Tooth—not all of us are so gifted."

"It doesn't matter!" she shrugged. "We sing, anyway. It's just for fun. No one else is going to hear you but us, and we won't think of you any less if you sing out of key. We're all friends, here."

That was still something he was getting used to remembering. Jack nodded, the corner of his mouth twitching upward into a smirk. "Okay, then," he finally responded, shaking the papers at her in a silent demand for her to make sense of them, "So how does this song go?"

Tooth was all too happy to teach.

* * *

Jack was laughing too hard to really even try doing anything properly. Somewhere among the seven steps to the right and then the seven steps to the left, his feet kept tripping up—especially with those "back-steps" or whatever Tooth liked to call them—but he seemed to be getting the hang of it.

And then Patty called from where he stood to the side, stringing away on the fiddle at a rapid, catchy pace, "All together, now!" and it was too much fun and hard and quick, but Jack couldn't stop smiling.

North laughed outrightly and robustly as all five of them began to do the beginner's reel in a line. And really, a lead around shouldn't have been so ridiculously hilarious—if Bunnymund hadn't called out in the middle of it, "Wheeeeee"—which, honestly, was so surprising and unlike him that everyone couldn't help but laugh.

"What is _wrong _with us?" Tooth giggled as they finished circling and began stepping to the right.

North laughed, and Jack took the opportunity to respond, "Because it's _fun. _Y'know, fun usually does that to people. In case you didn't know."

"Shut up, I'm tryin' ta dance," Bunnymund muttered, which set them all off again.

Jack turned to his right and grinned down at his golden-shimmering friend as the companion grinned back at him. For such short legs, the Sandman could dance rather well, the winter spirit noted. "Hey, Sandy—lookin' good!"

Sandy's grin broadened, with a "U-2" above his head shining.

Jack only chuckled as they neared the end of beginner's reel. The arches of his feet were starting to burn. "Hey—Patty—we good for now? I think I'm getting a bit hungry—"

"Not yet!" their leprechaun fiddling friend called out—sounding entirely too gleeful as he responded, Jack couldn't help but think. "How about we kick it up a bit? One more time—but faster!"

"Faster?" Jack choked. They were going fast enough as it is!

"Sure! We can do it!" Tooth cheered. "After the lead around, grab each other's hands! It'll help us stick together!"

Jack somehow didn't think that was such a good idea. "Are you sure that won't make us trip?"

"We'll find out! Quick! Go!" North shouted, and they all picked up the pace as they restarted the beginner's reel. Jack started to stumble heavily, and cried out every time he made a misstep, which made everyone else misstep once they grabbed each other's hands.

(Secretly, he was glad they had done so, because it also provided him support so he wouldn't just fall flat on his face.)

Once they were done, Jack was incredibly relieved (_My poor legs!_) to hear Patty call out, "Okay! North, Jack and Sandy—to the side! Bunny and Tooth—let's see what you've been working on this past year! Impress us! Ready—_go_!"

"Okay! C'mon, Bunny!" Tooth cheered, and without breaking rhythm or beat, she promenaded to face her dancing companion, who setted in place.

Jack, stopping, caught his breath, and joined Sandy and North in clapping to the rhythm of the fiddle as they stood to the side, witnesses to the new dance routine that apparently their two other guardians had been practicing on.

It was enchanting. Fun. Vivacious.

Which, in retrospect, Jack thought was strange because their legs were the only parts of their body moving. Occasionally, they would use their hands to grasp each other's and spin or curve their arm over their head as they spun. But largely, the entire dance—as it was for Irish Step Dancing in general—was told by the movements and pops of their angled legs and feet.

Patty's fiddle changed tune and mood and suddenly, the entire spectacle leapt to another level of "cool"—even Jack would admit.

And then, all too soon, it was over, and Patty was back to playing the original fun, upbeat melody he had been stringing before, but this time, Sandy joined him on the flute. Tooth then dashed over and grabbed Jack's hand, pulling him back to the dancing ground as she shouted, "Galway Reel, time! Ready for another go, Jack?"

"Oh nuts—" but there was no hiding the excited grin upon his face as he, Bunny, and the fairy together began promenading and dancing and spinning.

And Jack was smiling a mile wide—as they all were. Even North, on the side, clapping out a steady rhythm in companionship to Sandy's skilled flute and Patty's incredible fiddle, had a round and happy grin that lit up the forest clearing.

The night spun ever onward, and the dancing didn't stop. People swapped out, took breaks and snacked and perhaps helped beat on a tree or clap or stomp to a rhythm, but the partying continued. On and on, round and round, until a single chime rang out through the forest, halting all movement and sound.

Jack, startled, looked around ready for an attack, but upon seeing that none of the other Guardians were similarly alerted, he reluctantly relaxed.

It was Patty who broke the silence by then playing a single long note on his fiddle. "It's almost midnight, folks! You know what that means! Get your singing voices ready, because we're about to ballad ourselves a whole new year of good luck!"

Oh.

_Well, _Jack cleared his throat. _Guess it was going to come sooner or later._

But was it strange that he actually didn't feel nervous about it at all? Not anymore? Not when he was sweaty, red-faced, panting and oh-so-sore yet smiling recklessly like he had just started an avalanche? Was that normal? Was that okay?

By the similar faces of his roommates and companions, he supposed it was.

Patty stringed one more note on the fiddle—clearly the note they were to start with—a middle G—and hummed it as well, lifting his bow afterwards in a bid for attention.

The Guardians, in response, leaned against one another, arms around shoulders and waists until they were a cohesive line of sweaty, smelly clothes with mystical beings underneath who couldn't give a care how else the night turned out. If they sung out of tune, that was okay. If their voices were hoarse from shouting and cheering each other on, by all means, that was an invitation to sing at the top of their scratchy lungs.

It was raw, ugly, mismatched and sincere.

Strangely endearing, even while leaving them incredibly vulnerable.

And when Patty began to lead them in the first verse, Jack didn't want to miss a single word.

"_'Tis the gift to be simple, 'tis the gift to be free  
'Tis the gift to come down where we ought to be,  
And when we find ourselves in the place just right,__  
'Twill be in the valley of love and delight."_

Their voices filled the lantern-lit forest clearing, rising and alone with only Sandy's flute to accompany them.

For some reason, Patty's fiddle lied limp in his hand as he joined them in song.

"_When true simplicity is gain'd,__  
To bow and to bend we shan't be asham'd,  
To turn, turn will be our delight,__  
Till by turning, turning we come 'round right."_

Yet honestly, they didn't need it. North dropped low to a bass—handsome and rich, yet perhaps slightly off-key—and Tooth sang alto. There was no tenor, the part remained missing, but no one seemed inclined to fill it.

"_'Tis the gift to be loved and that love to return,  
'Tis the gift to be taught and a richer gift to learn,  
And when we expect of others what we try to live each day,  
Then we'll all live together and we'll all learn to say,  
'Tis the gift to have friends and a true friend to be,  
'Tis the gift to think of others not to only think of 'me,'  
And when we hear what others really think and really feel,  
Then we'll all live together with a love that is real."_

What made it truly special and heartfelt no matter their vocal quality, Jack couldn't help but think, was that every single one of them meant every single word.

Even him.

"_The Earth is our mother and the fullness thereof,  
Her streets, her slums, as well as stars above.  
Salvation is here where we laugh, where we cry,  
Where we seek and love, where we live and die._

_When true liberty is found,  
By fear and by hate we will no more be bound.  
In love and in light we will find our new birth  
And in peace and freedom, redeem the Earth."_

Jack tilted his face to the sky, closed his eyes, smiled, and didn't really care how dumb he may have looked.

This was home. Home honestly didn't care about such fickle things.

(What a relief to know.)

"_'Tis a gift to be simple, 'tis a gift to be fair,  
'Tis a gift to wake and breathe the morning air.  
And each day we walk on the path that we choose,  
'Tis a gift we pray we never shall lose…"_

Patty, with a warm smile, finally lifted his fiddle once more, stringing along in harmony to Sandy's flute, as they sang the final part.

"…_Dance, dance, wherever you may be,__  
__'I am the Lord of the Dance,' said He,__  
__'And I lead you all, wherever you may be,__  
__And I lead you all in the dance,' said He__."_

* * *

The party was over, the dances had been danced, the lighting and food and tables and instruments put away. Now, all that remained was lugging a certain sleeping Guardian of Fun home along with the rest of their pack as they left.

But Tooth couldn't help but stare at the slumbering Jack Frost on the grassy ground with a soft, fond smile, hands clasped before her before she had to reach forward to shake him awake.

It was Patrick who came up beside her and asked her the question. "What's on yer mind, lass?"

Tooth jumped, looked at the leprechaun friend, before regaining her smile. "Oh, nothing, I'm just…happy, I guess."

Patrick hummed in agreement, eyes also falling on the Guardian curled before them. He let a short pause last between them until he broke it. "He seemed to enjoy the evening, it seems. Tha's good, tha' is, at least. He has a very big smile."

Tooth giggled. "That he does. And I'm glad—very, very glad—that he was able to have some fun. I had hoped…"

But when her voice unexpectedly trailed off forlornly, Patty leaned forward and urged her to fill the gap. "You had hoped…?"

The fairy gave a quick, hopeful, fleeting smile before continuing. "I had _hoped…_that he would have fun. Y'know. Which is silly, because he _is _the Guardian of Fun. So…he's bound to have fun in whatever he does, but…" Tooth pursed her lips thoughtfully as she considered her next words carefully. "…I had hoped that…this would be fun _for _him. You know? So often, _he's _the one causing the fun or instigating it or making it happen, and for once, I just wanted him to sit back and…let the fun happen _to _him. Does that…does that make sense?"

A slow and warm smile spread over Patty's round-cheeked face. "Tha' makes _perfect _sense, lass," he murmured. "And—as _luck _would have it—I would venture a guess to say tha'…he did. _My_ day, after all—_his _day off. Would be a crime if I allowed him ta make his own kinda fun on _my _holiday."

Tooth smiled back, giggling. "Right, right. Of course."

"Of course."

* * *

**Crystal's Notes: **Finished! (dies) Finally...oh gosh. ;A; This took forever! And y'know what I did? What I actually did to write this?

I, myself, learned the beginner's reel. ;A; And let me tell you guys. Hard stuff. Tiring stuff. I can't believe how much of a work out those Irish Step Dances are! Like, what? Really, your legs do most of the work, so you'd THINK it wouldn't be too challenging, but holy cow! They're such a struggle!

But they're insanely fun. 8D

So I hope you enjoyed this oneshot for Saint Patrick's Day! Like all the others, this has stretched to be far longer than I originally intended, but I hope it was warm and happy and heartfelt for you all on this exciting holiday. (hug hug)

Enjoy! And have a beautiful day! Oh, and don't get pinched!


	9. Layers

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** **This chapter warrants a heavy trigger warning for those who have harmed themselves, intend to, and/or are trying to prevent themselves from doing so.****The following does not intend to glamorize or romanticize this act. If ****anyone**** sees it as doing otherwise, then it is the fault of the author who should be informed of this via reviews or private messages. ** **Please read at your own discretion.**

_9. Layers_

The knife slid beneath her feathers with a gentility that could only be that of a lover. Tooth took a deep, shaking breath, and pressed.

The fresh blood caressed her flesh, and Tooth wavered on the edge, watching as the thick liquid melted and merged with the shades of blue along her arm, dancing as a river does and dying as a flood does.

Sometimes, Tooth wished her feathers weren't so great at absorbing her blood, so that she might see it alive and flirtatious more often, over longer periods of time. However, it wasn't something that she could help, so instead she moved the knife to her other arm, wincing from the effort.

It's fine, she told herself, ignoring the grunts and moans of protest that sounded from her chest, almost against her will. _It's fine._ Just take it slow …

…No, she couldn't do it again. She dropped the knife, silent sobs racking her shoulders, and despite herself she curled into a small ball, unable to do anything else.

She just—Tooth couldn't _take it_ when the children, who were as much hers as their parents', were treated in such a horrible way! It tore at her heartstrings, at the _memories_ she was supposed to protect but wanted so desperately to destroy. These were _children,_ precious and innocent and each an individual treasure meant to be valued beyond belief—and yet…!

But Tooth couldn't. She couldn't erase these memories, as she'd tried to before; if such a fragile mind were to be tampered with, there would be consequences that affected everyone, not just her and the young girl. And so Tooth dealt with that pain in the only way she could: by bleeding it out.

Her fairies were working without her, and oh Tooth felt so terribly guilty for leaving them on their own once again. She was a terrible mother to them, and an even worse sister; but they knew. They were as much herself as she was, and so they carried her burden on their shoulders as well as their duties.

She was so, so selfish. What would the other Guardians say to her if they knew what disgusting things she was doing to herself…? What would the Man in the Moon say? They'd probably strip her of her status, exile her—for someone who mutilates herself can't possibly be considered a role model…

"Hello, Toothiana."

She let out a small squeak, her wings jump-starting as she flew backwards to the other side of the room, staring into the shadows for the offender. She knew that voice, knew it because she'd fought its owner so many times before.

"W-what are you doing here?" she demanded, wishing that she'd kept the scimitars North had given her at her side like she had in the old days. To be caught by an enemy, at such a vulnerable moment…!

Pitch said nothing to her, gazing at the knife she'd dropped, now at his feet. It was still dipped in her blood, just the edges, and when he looked up at her, it was as if he was staring into her _everything_—her soul, her mind, her very _essence_.

"Perhaps you'd best bandage that," Pitch commented, nodding to her arm. Her opposite hand covered the wound, suddenly naked despite the feathers that concealed it.

"I know how to treat a wound," she shot back, defensive and angry. Why was he here? What did he want from her? "Perhaps _you'd_ best leave."

"Ah, but I won't." Pitch stepped forward now, and in three long strides he now stood directly in front of her, no more than five feet away. "I've stayed silent for far too long. You're not learning."

"_Learning?"_ she echoed, bewildered. "What in the world do you mean by _that?"_

"I think you know what I mean." Pitch waved a hand as though his wording did not matter. "For ages, I've been witness to your … _illness_." The word sent shock throughout her body—her wings faltered and she stumbled backwards, trying to retreat but unable to. "I'd assumed that with time, and with _friends_ who _cared,_ you would stop turning to the knife."

At this point he scowled. "Evidently, I'd assumed wrongly. You are not _recovering,_ Queen—not even with Jack Frost at your side."

"Jack?" Tooth's head ached, her stomach began to flip; she'd cut a bit too deeply this time, she knew, for it was affecting her more than it had in other instances. "What – what does Jack have to do with this?"

"Well, he's the Guardian of _Fun!"_ Pitch cried, his lips twisting into a sneer, though Tooth could sense it was not aimed at her. "You'd think that if he were aware of your plight, he'd be doing _something_ to actively awaken you from it! When you allied with that Pooka, I'd assumed that him being the Guardian of Hope would have some affect on you—but that didn't, either, though I know you are _far_ from beyond help!"

Tooth blinked, and now her mind was whirling. What? Pitch … Pitch thought that they—

_No!_ Every fiber of her being was screaming now, protesting the notion that any of them knew. They wouldn't, they – they _couldn't!_ She'd worked so hard to keep this a secret from all of them, and if they found out, it – it would _end_ her!

The room was full of silence now, the tension palpable, and as Tooth's thought ended she could see a sort of realization appearing on Pitch's face. Her jaw dropped, her eyes widened, and she started to stammer something out, though she didn't know what.

"Ah." Her reaction didn't seem to hinder him, and neither did the multitude of words all trying to exit her mouth all at once; Pitch stepped back as she reached for him. "I'd always interpreted that as a general fear of discovery, but no. This is rather specific, isn't it?"

"No," she whispered, and her entire body began to vibrate. "No, no, Pitch, please, don't do this! You can't—"

"It is my job to ensure that children learn and grow from their fears." Pitch gazed at her now with sympathetic eyes, full and soft and _repugnant_. "But I can know an adult's just as easily. Your fear is harming you, Toothiana, and like with Jack Frost's fear of starvation, I must inform someone who can help you more readily than I can."

"Pitch," she tried again, once more, desperation seizing her in a frenzy as she darted forward, her wings coming to life, _"please—"_

The King of Nightmares vanished into the shadows of the room, and though Tooth pounded the floor where he'd last stood, it was futile. He was gone.

Her sobs shook the entire New Tooth Palace, and for a fleeting moment all of her fairies ceased, afflicted with their mother's anxiety and regret and depression, before they continued to work. Only Baby Tooth went to Toothiana's side, carrying to her a box of bandages.

Tooth accepted them gratefully, knowing that now it was only a matter of time. All she could do was wait.

* * *

"It's no good!" North called. "Paint it green!"

Phil groaned, and another Yeti approached North with a clipboard. He signed it without looking, storming past as he kept his eyes on the gifts that would soon be wrapped up for the children—"Ah!" he snapped, gesturing to the newest fire truck. "No, tires are too skinny! Pay more attention to model!"

The Yeti let out an aggravated "Poo-_tah?!"_ but North had moved on already, clapping his hands as he congratulated another on the quality, which had been improved on compared to the model he himself had carved.

Santoff Claussen was in a constant flow, endlessly busy, stopping only for a few hours' rest at night. Because they were immortal, the Guardians needed much less sleep—Sandy and Tooth, for instance, never slept at all. North, however, found that regular sleep (even only three or four hours' worth) improved productivity dramatically, and as a result it was required among all of his workers, Yetis and elves alike.

It was five minutes until the bell for sleep rang, and out of the corner of his eye North spotted an old almost-comrade, hiding amid the shadows of one of the decorative pillars. For a moment, North was amused—because after last time, North couldn't blame the spirit for cowering amidst the darkness—but then North remembered the last time Pitch had sought him out.

It had been to inform him of Jack Frost's state of near-starvation, though North was sure he would have died long ago had he been a normal human, relative mortality aside. Pitch never seemed to be the bearer of good news.

The King of Nightmares' eyes met North's, and something about it startled him, for in that gaze there was something powerful and grave. In the span of a second, Pitch communicated all North needed to know: something was wrong. Something terrible and something that must be fixed at once.

It occurred to the Guardian of Wonder why they call it 'eye _contact_.'

"We finish early tonight!" North announced. The Yetis around him turned in disbelief, and to enunciate his point, North hopped up to the bell, lifted the mallet resting at its side, and slammed it into the heavy metal, enticing several long and melodious notes.

"We just work a few more minutes tomorrow!" North called once everyone's attention had been gathered. "Good job today, everyone!"

The Yetis groaned; they all knew that when North intended to keep them late, they worked for far more than only a 'few more minutes.' Still, though, the notion of sleep was welcome, and so everyone set down their tools and began to prepare for bed.

North, however, headed to his workshop, the small room that Jack had often called his office, closing and locking the door behind him. When he turned, he saw Pitch standing there, his shoulders tense—when had he even seen Pitch with tense shoulders? he wondered. It seemed like no matter what, Pitch was very relaxed and calm.

… But not now.

"What is wrong?" North demanded, approaching the shadow without heed. "What has happened?"

"…Nicholas." Pitch sighed and wrung his hands. "I trust that you will be very sensitive with the information I am about to give you. Do not share it with anyone more than necessary—and this includes the other Guardians. Do you understand?"

North frowned. "No," he answered. Pitch looked crestfallen at his reply, but what did he expect North to say? He was as honest a man as he ever was. "What is this 'information' you have for me?"

Pitch was quiet for a moment, and his brow furrowed in thought. North waited patiently for the spirit to speak, shifting from time to time. Pitch's gaze never left him, and in a way it was unnerving.

"This is a very delicate situation." Pitch finally spoke again, and he had the most curious expression on his face. "Toothiana requires your help. She is … not well."

"Oh?" Now North was confused; he watched Pitch, trying to determine what it was that he meant. "And what does that mean? 'Not well?'"

"This will hurt to hear." Pitch's eyes fluttered closed, and he might have been asleep had he not been standing. "Toothiana, being the Guardian of Memories, must suffer from the burden of carrying millions of children's memories. Not all of them are pleasant—in fact, some of them are things not even I could conjure up on my worst nights."

Now Pitch opened his eyes, and he unclasped and clasped his hands together again. North was surprised; was he… fidgeting? "She has taken to harming herself, Nicholas."

The sentence was like a punch in the gut. North stumbled backwards, only narrowly managing to catch himself with his desk. "W-what?" he gasped out, his eyes widened.

Such a brave, selfless woman—someone so kind and so pure and so _bright_—was resorting to… but _why?_ North could feel his eyes begin to water, and when he glanced to Pitch, the shadow was standing there, awaiting his response.

Pitch was not pulling strings here. He was not lying. He had nothing to gain from a lie like _this_—for he gained no power from North's fear.

The question echoed through his head: why, why, _why?_ He'd known that her job was always much more difficult than his, but if – if it was so difficult, then perhaps—

_No._ Suddenly North stood resolutely, firmly, his mind made up. He would have to comfort her—to show her that even here and even now, there were those willing to be at her side and hold her when she needed it! He would have to show her that there were _options,_ that she didn't have to carry this all on her own!

"Thank you," North said with the most sincerity he'd ever directed at Pitch. "I will handle this now."

And then Pitch's shoulders sagged, his eyes drooped and he let out a sigh of relief. "Thank the Man in the Moon," he uttered, almost under his breath. "For all my knowledge of fear, this is one that even I have trouble encouraging one to learn from. Be careful with her."

"I don't need you to tell me that," North replied with a small smile. "You can rest for now, Pitch."

"And _I_ don't need _you_ to tell me that." For a split second, Pitch's face reflected North's, transforming into a small, wry smile, before he vanished into the shadows as he always did.

North left his workshop then, heading for the elevator. A thousand different things ran through his head—a thousand things he could say, a thousand things he could do, a thousand different endings for the night—but one thing was certain.

He would never be so blind to a friend's pain again.

* * *

Toothiana fiddled with the bandage around her wound, filled with a sense of self-disgust and grotesque self-pity. How useless she was, sitting here feeling sorry for herself. She wasn't much help to anyone, like she was now. The least she could do was direct her fairies… Or help them organize their teeth, at least.

She sighed and willed her wings to life, at last lifting herself off of the ground. This was terrible; she was a horrible Guardian. But she wasn't going to spend her last moments as one acting like a petulant child, however much she ached to.

Oh, but perhaps she could somehow hide the bandage? Maybe if she wore that wonderful dress Bunny had given her…

No. No, if the wound bled through somehow, she'd never be able to get it out of the beautiful fabric. Out of ideas, Tooth stepped outside, and all of the fairies perked at the sight of her. She smiled back at them, knowing they must have been worried sick about her.

"Toothy!"

The voice rang throughout the floor, and in that moment Tooth's spirits were lifted. _North!_ Oh, thank goodness, it was _North!_ Granted, he could have simply rang the bell as opposed to shouting for her like all the others did when she wasn't within sight after stepping off the elevator, but oh, at least it was _him._

Pitch and North had never gotten along very well, even following the reveal of Pitch's change of heart—Pitch would _never_ approach North, not even (or perhaps, especially _not_) for her sake. A weight seemed to have lifted from her shoulders.

She raced down to the ground below, to where the elevator took any of her visitors—just to the right of an exact replica of her mural, which was so exact that even the minute details that had faded in time were present.

"Oh, North!" she greeted, a huge smile on her face as she pulled him into an embrace. "It's so good to see you!"

He laughed as he wrapped his large arms around her slim body, careful not to disrupt her wing pattern. "It is good to see you, as well," he replied, and when they pulled away North gave her a wink.

"How are you feeling, Toothy?" North asked, gesturing to her bandage. "Are you hurt?"

"Oh, this?" Tooth laughed and made no move to hide it. That would be more suspicious. "It was just an accident with the fairies. A bruise, really. It's fine."

She'd talked for too long, giving a reason made her seem even more like a liar—everything she'd learned about hiding her secret flashed through her mind like a blur, and she prayed that North wouldn't be able to see through her ruse.

The aged man furrowed his brow in thought, or perhaps worry, and Tooth feared for a moment that he knew. Then quickly, she said, "And how are you, North? Is it time for you to head to bed already?"

"Ah…" North frowned now, and his hand began to run through his beard. "Not exactly. I've been better, though, I'll tell you that."

"Oh?" And Tooth smiled at him, because he wasn't seeking her out for _her_ sake, it seemed. No, he was here for something that was bothering him, and _that_ she could help with. "What is it? Should I get you something to drink? I can lead you inside – ah, inside the Palace, that is, since I guess we're already inside."

"No need for drink," North replied, taking her hand. His forehead was creased with worry, and he leaned towards her – floating, her gaze was just a little above his eye level. "I must talk to you."

"Of course, of course," she replied, and she willed her wings to stop, landing beside him. "What's the matter?"

North sighed and, holding her hand, brought her in closer. "…That is no accident, is it?"

Tooth's feathers ruffled, flinching as she did, as if one of the many among her plumage had been plucked. "What do you mean?" she asked carefully, determined now to somehow prove that she was _not_ doing what he thought she was.

North watched her for a moment, before he began to unwrap her bandage. She whimpered, trying to back away, but all at once she didn't have the energy. North's grip would tighten if she were too sudden, she knew; once he had his hold, he would never let go.

He allowed the material to drop as he examined her arm. Her wings fluttered once, twice, twitching with the urge to flee—but he didn't let her. He sensed it and glanced up at her again, before finally he straightened and released her.

"Why do you do it?"

Tooth winced. He must know, she thought as she looked away, unable to meet his eyes. "It's… complicated," she decided on saying, and every bone in her shook. She prayed he would leave it there, but—of course, he raised an eyebrow, prompting her to continue.

"…It _hurts,"_ she finally managed out, and tears rushed to her eyes. "I can't explain it, North, I really can't. But – don't tell my fairies this, but I take the time to ensure all of a child's memories are safe after a tooth has been gathered. I do it all myself, individually. And… and sometimes, their memories are…"

She wanted to call them a 'burden,' but that wouldn't be fair—not to North, not to the Man in the Moon, not to her fairies, and most certainly not to the children who had experienced such horrific events. But the terrible ones carved out holes in her heart and left her struggling to breathe.

But now North put a hand on her shoulder, and with gentle fingers he took her chin in his hand and lifted it up, so that her eyes now met his.

"I must ask something very big of you, Toothy." His nickname for her was full of as much affection as it ever was. "The next time you feel an urge to… harm yourself. I want you to find me instead."

She blinked. "…What?" she asked, and her mind whirled. "What do you mean?"

"What you're doing, it's—it's not good," he said, and she could tell in his eyes that he was having trouble wording what he wanted to say. "But from now on, instead of hurting yourself, you can come to me instead. Or to any of the other Guardians! We will help you, we will distract you—we will do whatever it takes to keep you from doing this."

"Oh…!" Her hand went to her mouth, her eyes widening. "They—they don't know about this, do they? The others…"

"No!" North replied quickly, and he stopped touching her, looking alarmed. "Of course not! I would not tell a soul!"

"And…" she swallowed. "Pitch? He didn't?"

There was a moment of silence, before North sighed. "…no, he did not," he said. "After he told me, he seemed rather exhausted. I don't think he would have had the energy to tell anyone else."

She relaxed, but North was still unsatisfied. He took her hands in his again and he said, "Will you do as I ask? Will you promise?"

"…I will." It was the least she could do, she thought—after all that he'd done for her. "Do—do you think I should tell the others…?"

North scratched the back of his head. "That is not my decision to make, Toothy. I wish I could tell them all, so that they would all know and all be able to help—but it is not my place."

Now he took a step away from her, allowing her room to breathe. "But if you ever wish to do so," he continued, "just activate aurora lights. No matter where they are, they will come."

Tooth smiled and fluttered forward, kissing his cheek. "Thank you so much, North." And she meant it. Never before had she ever felt as grateful. He smiled back, his gaze warm and almost paternal.

"Now," he said as he stretched his arms. "I must get back to work. But if you press button, I will come as well and help, yes?"

"Yes," she replied with a nod. "Yes, of course. Again, thank you so much."

He waved her thanks off, feeling unworthy of it, and he left to return to his workshop. Tooth continued about her own duties, feeling a certain flit in her flight.

How blessed she was to have such a wonderful friend.

* * *

It was several months and countless moments of confiding in North later when Tooth, at long last, activated the summons with a twist and a push.

The entire ceiling changed, much to her surprise; the northern lights stretched across it, a reflection of what was being shown above. She didn't know it, but it was the same in each of the rooms of the building – a feature North had installed in the panels of their ceilings, determined to keep the aurora as their primary emergency signal.

Bunnymund was the first to arrive, of course; he worked day and night inside his New Warren. He was a bit rough with Tooth, demanding to know what had happened and what the emergency was, and for the life of her she couldn't find the words. North appeared shortly after, still shouting commands at the Yetis in order to steer them in the right direction until he returned. He was able to calm the Pooka, assuring him his questions would be answered soon.

Sandy was next, floating in on his cloud with his brow furrowed with worry. He tried to interrogate her as well, for to him it was clear who had called them all together; again North stepped in, quieting him for a time.

Jack showed up nearly an entire hour after Sanderson had, the grin still plain on his face and unnatural patterns of snow dancing across his jacket. Bunny snapped at him, angry that the newest Guardian had blatantly ignored the summons, but Jack insisted it had been for the sake of the children he'd been entertaining.

North again was quick to silence them, drawing their attention to Tooth. She smiled at him, grateful for his help, but turned away and closed her eyes as she began to speak.

She told them everything; she told them of when she first began, what made her do it—how her fairies reacted; she told them of Pitch revealing his knowledge, how that in turn got North involved, and she told them of what she and North had been doing in an attempt to resolve it for the past few months. She told them her innermost feelings and thoughts, things she hadn't shared even with North as of late.

Though she refused to open her eyes to catch a glimpse of her friend's reactions, she could feel them: The longer she went on, the closer North was, until he placed a hand on her shoulder to let her know he was still there. Bunny's eyes went wide at first, his ears dropping, and then they narrowed as he tried to sense the scars along her arms. Sandy's sand danced about her, desperate to urge her into a dreamland far away from the reality she faced.

And Jack—as young as he was, still unable to guard his emotions as well as the other Guardians—his eyes welled with tears, his breath caught, and he pulled his hood over his eyes to keep the others from seeing, curling around his staff as though it were a teddy bear, though his ears remained open.

When she finished, she glanced up to North, whose eyes were glistening but they were filled with a paternal pride Tooth hadn't seen since her own father, and that gives her the courage to turn to the others.

Jack, who'd been listening at the very back, was the first to reach her, rushing forward past all the others. He was so fast she almost didn't see the heartbroken expression on his face as he pulled her into the warmest, tightest embrace she'd received in years. It was enough to make her tear up, as well.

Before Jack pulled away and before she even had a chance to return the hug, Bunny wrapped his arms around the both of them, solemn and silent. Jack didn't say a thing about it, even when her arms extended to the two of them.

When the two of them released her at long last, Sandy floated up to her height, a soft crinkle in his eyes. He formed no images above his head but a small, lone boar in his hand, and she sensed how eager he was to help her.

A creature of infinite courage and resilience—a warrior among beasts. No matter what came its way, the boar would charge forward, braving any obstacles and never looking back. She almost burst into tears, knowing the meaning of it.

"She has come very far," North said at long last, breaking the silence between them. Everyone turned to him, and North chuckled. "She will always have scars—but I think we can keep her from getting any more."

Unwillingly, Tooth winced. She remembered vividly the beginning, of just shortly after his proposal—of the days she'd flown to him in a panic, having cut herself before she realized her promise. Those days were few and far between now, though they were nowhere near forgotten.

"You got it." Again, it was Jack who spoke up first, his eyes on her unwaveringly. "Any time you need someone, you come find one of us. And I'll try to visit you more often, too—just in case."

"Mate, she ain't a little kid." Bunny's tone was almost scolding as he looked down at Jack. "She doesn't need check-ups. But…"

Now Bunny looked over at her, and he smiled. "…Same goes for me. I'll gladly be there for ya, if ya need me. I won't get too worried or visit or nothin', 'cuz I know you can take care of yourself—but I trust that means you'll ask for help when you need it. Got it?"

"Got it," she replied, and her eyes and chest stung with something like a mixture of elation and relief. "Yeah—yes, I got it!"

And everyone laughed, a gentle and caring sound. One by one they hugged her once more, and one by one they left, though they were loathe to—because after all, their jobs were jobs and they were important, no matter what they suffered individually. And then only Bunny was left, lingering after all the others had gone.

"I mean it," he said to her again with sternness, though she could tell it was half-hearted and formed from concern. "Ask for it if you need it."

"I know," she replied, her pink-violet eyes sparkling. "I will, I promise."

"If you break that promise, I'll never forgive ya." He looked her in the eye and held up a paw, pointing at her almost as an accusation. "You hear me?"

"I hear you," she said—and then he held her once more, kissed her forehead, and she could feel just how worried he was in that very embrace, in the way his eyes and whiskers trembled as he pulled away. And then Bunny took after the others.

Tooth took a few moments to herself before she returned to her job. She went to her private chamber and slipped into the dress he'd made for her, danced in it, all by herself, with no one to see her as she ritualistically washed away the worry that had manifested inside her just before she'd summoned them all.

Once she'd finished, she was careful with the dress as she placed it back in her closet, and raced back to her darling fairies. She was ready now to throw herself back into collecting teeth—to return to the strength she'd held so perilously before.

She had her friends at her side now, and though she had made so much progress with North, with them she was undoubtedly going to make even more.

The thought was a comforting one.

* * *

**Elsa's Note:** I'm not sure if any of you guys are on tumblr, but a lot of Rise of the Guardians blogs have been posting some pretty heavy stuff regarding suicide... This is dedicated to all of them who push through it every day just for the chance to talk to other fans, who always give it their all. But not just to them—nah, they just get a special mention! This is for _everyone_ who's ever considered suicide.

By the way, we do have a tumblr now! The link is in our bio. (No, this is not an April Fool's joke, haha.)

I hope you all enjoyed, as painful a topic as this is. I know you were expecting something light-hearted for this holiday, and I'm sorry I wasn't able to meet that. Please review anyway, and happy Jack Frost day! (That's right, folks, he became a Guardian April First: the day after Easter.)


	10. Lackluster Days

_10. Lackluster Days_

It was summer.

But summer was incredibly boring for a winter spirit.

Jack lied on his back in the middle of the lake in his room, frowning contemplatively at the ceiling. He waited a minute more in his thoughtful silence, before sighing.

Yep. There was just no other way around it. He was bored.

_Nuts._

To his surprise, however, the elevator dinged. Eyes instinctively drawn to the sound, Jack watched as North then stepped out and onto his floor, looking as positively restless as the other Guardian did.

Jack, without thinking, called out, "Bored?"

The Guardian of Wonder nodded tiredly. "Da. You?"

"Yep."

North grunted and trekked forward to the other's side, where he also hunkered down and lay on his back, staring up at the windowed ceiling idly. The ever-snowing Arctic sky blustered above them, unheard, unfelt and only seen by its two reluctant audience members.

Jack sighed again. "Us winter spirits have it rough this time of year, huh?"

North grunted again in agreement.

"Guess Sandy and Tooth are lucky. They have all-year-round work."

To that, North hummed, thinking, tapping his fingers on his round belly as he considered that. "Not sure they be lucky. If I were them, I would get tired night after night."

Jack frowned slightly, considering that. "True…but at least I'd be busy. I'd have something to _do._"

North nodded in agreement.

Both Guardians glanced over, then, as the elevator dinged once more and out stepped Bunnymund, fur on end and brittle as he stomped down to the lake and without another word, laid down beside North. (Or, more like plopped down, as if the very effort of getting there was too much and too exhausting for the pooka to deal with.)

North nodded at Bunny. "Bored?"

A grunt followed.

They took that as a 'yes.'

And after another moment of silence, Jack couldn't help but snicker. "…you guys, we suck."

Bunny snorted. "Speak for yourself, Frostbite."

"No—like—really—we suck."

North had a knowing grin, that was only punctuated by the opening of the elevator door once more, and the loud complaint of Tooth's voice as she shouted, "You _guys_! How long has it been since the dishes were last washed?"

A very suspicious silence was her only answer.

* * *

**Crystal's Notes: **Short but sweet? 8D Maybe?

Haha...this is based off of SO many instances in my life, where I'm constantly like, "OMGSH I'M SO _BORED_" and then my mom strikes back with, "...y'know, there _are _chores to do..." (Which I always neglect; omgsh I'm such a bad influence...)

I realize I'm doing a lot of light-hearted fics recently...I should find a good serious one to do eventually...(hum hum hum)

But in any case, do enjoy! 8D Lots of love to you all! And if you guys have ANY requests for a oneshot, don't be afraid to ask for it! We shall cater to your whims! x3 Or at least...most of them. 8D

Have a good day!


	11. The Winter Prince

_11. The Winter Prince_

Over the years, Jack has found that belief is more than just blood to keep him alive.

There was the incident with Sophie – when she stumbled into the woods in the midst of winter. She'd only been about six years old, and he rescued her from pneumonia. Oh, how her belief in him had surged; though she'd been unconscious, he could feel it beginning to thrive, and after seeing her safely to her home he'd almost danced with joy.

The best thing about the little blonde was that her belief had never faded. Jaime's did, as time went on, and that had hurt Jack emotionally more than it had in regards to his power. But Sophie, who never saw him more than once afterwards (due to his then embarrassing tendency to avoid the Bennett household following Jaime's ascension to adulthood), never stopped. And when she fell victim to old age, Jack had felt the blow like a hole in his gut.

She was the only one to hold belief until the very end—and for that, Jack keeps a special place in his heart for her.

It's hard for him to say otherwise about any child, though, because he finds each and every child who believes special enough for his memory: tiny-framed Allegria of Pisa, who grew up to become a world-renowned composer and flautist for her revolutionary music; the large-bodied Chandrakiran, who became a huge facilitator of the India-Pakistan Peace Agreement of 2067; the beautiful Iolani, born in Hanalei, Hawaii but raised on the mainland America, who suffered from bulimia but uncovered an inner strength, growing up to be an advocate of the anti-body shaming cause.

Each and every child is special and oh-so precious, and Jack savors each and every one of them. He remembers them all individually and with such crystal-clear, vivid memories. The more there are, the easier it is to know them, it seems.

And the job gets easier, too – he no longer has to interact with them to get their attention. Often times a child will say, "Look, there he is! That's him!" And just like that, that child's friend who didn't believe now does.

Jack noticed some time ago that they don't refer to him as "Jack Frost" much anymore; simply "him" or sometimes things like "sir winter" or even the more ridiculous, half-gibberish "his coldliness." He doesn't mind, not really; but it isn't until 2103 that he realizes why.

As he's rushing through town in the midst of night, icing over the windows of hover-cars and creating a plethora of unique, never-before-seen snowflakes ready to be cast out into the world with only a word, a young girl sees him.

It hurts Jack at first, because he sees how she's dressed and knows what it means; she's a victim of the sex-trafficking boom that's been made all-too easy by such advanced technology and security. He usually tries to avoid the hubs because he knows they must work under any conditions, even in the event of a tornado, and he despises making their job even worse than it already is.

And he's done it again. Shame glazes his vision and he looks away from her, unable to meet her eyes. He doesn't know _why_ she believes in him, exactly, because he's most certainly never done her any favors, but she speaks and he's relieved it's not anything spiteful.

"Are you the Winter Prince?"

He blinks at that, and it confuses him to the point he looks back to her. There's a certain sparkle, wonder in her eyes, and though he's never heard himself called that directly, it makes him grin.

"I am," he says to her, bowing – and the wind does him a favor, flirting with his dark blue cloak to add a dreamlike quality to him. "And might there be something I can do for you, little one?"

She giggles, though he's not much taller than her, and he's glad to have given her such entertainment. "My friends and I," she says, and he notices the apprehension she speaks with that can be mistaken for modesty or timidity, and _oh_ how he wishes he could help her, "we've been, ah, talking about you within recent times, and… we would adore it if you would bless us with a blizzard."

"A blizzard?" At this, Jack frowns. Blizzards can be dangerous, especially this far inland, where they're not as frequent. "Why would you want that, if I may ask?"

"Oh, it's…" She shrugs, her face flushes, and then she says, "We all have younger siblings, you know. I mean, my friends and I. We haven't been able to get in touch with them, but, when it snows, the post office across the light-way from us can't deliver mail. On those days, it's… I mean, it'd be so easy to just sneak around and slip a letter into their stacks of 'to deliver…'"

He knows there is a risk in that. He doesn't want to disappoint her, but at the same time, he can't help but worry. "Won't you get ill?" he asks, confused. "To go outside during a blizzard, especially in your uniform…"

"Oh, don't worry about that." She laughs now. "We've, um—acquired some of the new pre-cold medicine that prevents it. Or, um, at least it'll keep us from showing or experiencing any of the symptoms."

He hums, his fingers drumming on his staff as he thinks. He would be doing her a favor, in a way—he'd be helping her, making up for all the times he hadn't helped those in her position. But on the other hand, what about all of the children, whose deaths during unpredicted blizzards had only barely decreased over the years?

After a moment, Jack smiles at her. "I'll see what I can do," he says. It's a promise, for sure, one that he intends to keep, and he sees her eyes light up like fireflies against the dark twilight.

But before she can articulate her gratitude, a man appears from around the cornerstone of one of the half-buildings. Jack feels every bone in his body, every cell, every _pore_ demand that he help this young woman out—because there is only one identity that man can have.

Well, Jack can't turn down such a passionate request, now, can he?

Jack recalls that North once told him that he's not allowed to interfere with the personal lives of his believers. That's fine. This will be just like that snowstorm with Sophie – but instead of unexpectedly letting up…

"Hey," he says, before she can turn around. "Run."

The hesitation is brief, and when she hugs herself, shivering and her brow crinkling, the wind urges her past him—but it is only when the large man stumbles and she hears him, recognizes his presence, that she bursts into action, not looking back.

The man curses and though the wind is guiding the young woman to shelter – its harsh, freezing blasts are hard to ignore – at the same time a gust of that same air is antagonizing her pursuer.

At his will, ice crystals begin to fall, tiny and harsh, and a malevolent grin takes to Jack's face – out of character and at the same time so natural.

"For those who antagonize my believers," he declares as he raises his staff, "I have no pity. Now prepare to _dance!"_

* * *

_Tick, tock._

_Tick, tock._

Jack groans and pulls his hood over his eyes as head, curled into a ball on his pond of ice, so that it covers his ears fully. The clock, unforgiving, continues its ticking and tocking, but now it seems louder than ever – even more decibels than those of his own pounding heartbeat.

His hands, which he'd been desperate to occupy, are creating an ice sculpture that he has yet to conceive and can't yet fathom. His mind is so, so full—where _is_ that young woman? Is she safe? The wind is supposed to be seeing her home, what's taking it so long? And the words, the things she said to him…

He stops his train of thought, jerked almost awake by the sudden revelation that his sculpture is complete. When he glances down to it, half-expecting a likeness of the young girl, but instead, it's … it's a crown.

Disgust fills his stomach, and Jack drops the offending object, kicking it away. It shatters like glass against the thick ice, not near deep enough to withstand the force.

How in the world is he _princely?_ After being so reckless, so _stupid,_ so utterly brazen and grotesque! After he'd – for the first time in _four hundred years_ – intentionally taken another's life.

Jack bites back a whimper, although his only companion is the freezing cold.

Oh, no, what if she's _dead?_ What if by accident, Jack killed her? Oh—oh, _no,_ what if he hadn't helped her out at all—what if he'd given her and everyone else she worked with pneumonia, those outfits weren't much warmth, after all—oh, _no_, what—

"Oi. Shut up."

Jack blinks and looks up; standing in front of him is Bunny, who's glaring at him, and Jack's eyes dry without him even realizing they were wet.

"W…" His throat is raw as if he'd been screaming, and he clears his throat before he says, "Was I talking out loud?"

"Nah." Bunny sits down next to him, on the frost-encrusted lake, and he looks as if he's about to freeze because he's got his arms wrapped around himself like a blanket. "I just know you well enough to be able to tell by a look when you're yelling at yourself. Usually it's when you're mopin' around, like so."

Jack laughs – empty and hollow, it sounds, even to him – and changes the subject. "So what're you doing here, anyway?"

"Eh, I'm surprised ya didn't hear it. Ellie made me come 'ere when I was headed down to North, and I argued with her somethin' fierce." Jack chuckles, a smile taking his face, and Bunny smiles back, glad to have enticed such a reaction.

Jack sighs and begins to shift away, hoping to keep Bunny from catching a cold, when—

"'Ey!" Now Bunny grabs him by the shoulder opposite him and yanks him back. "Where d'ya think you're goin'?"

"Agh—!" Jack yelps and finds his cheek buried into Bunny's upper chest, combating a sneeze as his fur tickles his nose. "Y—! I'm gonna' make you _cold_, you stupid rabbit!"

"I'm being serious. Shut it."

Is – is Bunny _hugging_ him?

"I don't know what's got you down, mate," he says and Jack tries to peek up at him, "but I'd bet my boomerangs that it wasn't your fault."

Jack tries to laugh, but it sounds like a pathetic half-sob. "You're going to lose those boomerangs then," he says, and his voice is shaking as he's trying not to think too hard on it. "Because it's one hundred percent my fault. God, I could've… I _should've_—"

His efforts fail him, and his shoulders are shaking now, despite his best efforts, and Bunny gives him another gentle squeeze before he pulls away and looks at him eye-to-eye.

"Easy there, tiger," Bunny says with a frown. "What happened? You want to talk about it?"

"You'll hate me for it." It's the whole truth and nothing but, but when Bunny opens his mouth and looks ready to argue, Jack blurts it out.

"I _killed someone_ today!"

Bunny blinks, his ears fall back. He seems shocked for a moment and Jack knows he's going to snap at him any second, but Bunny recovers and says, "Well, Jackie, in snowstorms, it ain't uncommon—" He's struggling to articulate now. "I mean, you of all people should…"

"No, no, _no!"_ Jack runs a hand through his hair, the hood falling back, and with it comes the _tick tock, tick tock_—"You don't understand, Bunny, I—I _meant_ to! I did it with every intention, and… and…!"

He lets out something akin to a whine, low and pitiful. "And, oh, why did I ever—I must've killed so many others, it must have been too harsh for more than just him, and I can't just…"

Bunny's staring at him now, and Jack's bracing himself, he's ready for anything the Pooka can throw at him, and then Bunny says, "I'll be right back."

He hops up, taps the ground (likely not wanting to go through Ellie again) and he's gone.

Jack, alone, curls back into a ball and he tries not to cry, though the guilt and the apprehension that are killing him are a far greater enemy than any he's faced before.

* * *

An hour later, Jack is awoken by the wind's return. It comes to him and circles around him, nudging him until he opens his eyes, and it whispers to him gently.

_She is safe._

Jack may have sobbed in relief, had he not already worn himself out. He stands, and the wind helps him to keep his balance as it rushes against him. He laughs at it, trying to assure it that he's fine, he really is – but the wind does not believe him. Jack doesn't blame it.

Then there's a small _ding,_ and he hears a distinct voice: "Floor ten."

"Keep messing around, Ellie, and I swear to Morena, I reprogram you and make you _unable to talk!"_

"North, mate, you've reprogrammed her at least twenty times already. I don't think that threat means much to the sheila—or to the artifi—I mean—whatever she is!"

Jack sighs as he begins to walk forward, off of the lake; the wind asks to dance with him, seeing that its news of the woman's wellbeing has done little to soothe his spirit, but Jack ignores it, brushing it away. He can't, not right now.

He stands in front of the two older Guardians and their bickering draws to a close. Bunny looks at him, and then he glances to North, who clears his throat.

"Right." North smiles at Jack and wraps a huge arm around the boy's shoulder, patting it roughly but with affection. Jack hadn't been expecting the gesture. "Jack, I must show you something."

Jack doesn't follow North so much as allow himself to be dragged, and he glances at Bunny, silently asking the Pooka for an explanation. Bunny just shrugs at the look and keeps to Jack's other side, as if he and Saint Nick were forming some sort of protective shell around him.

When they enter the elevator, North hits the button for the ground floor, and it lights up as bright as ever in response. Ellie chimes in as the doors close.

"Current destination: North, one."

Both Bunny and North let out a huge sigh of relief that may have made Jack laugh, if he wasn't certain that he was being led to his exile. Jack's not sure, really, how Guardians are excommunicated – for all he knows, there's some sort of ritual involved at the Globe, and maybe that's where this is headed.

"Good heavens," Bunny mutters under his breath when the door opens, "I was afraid she was gonna' start somethin' again."

"Ah, I as well," North replies, and they chuckle together. Jack cracks a smile, but he doesn't partake.

They do lead him to the Globe, and North pauses for one moment, and Jack thinks this is it—when North laughs. "So many lights," he comments, his brow crinkled. "Jack, where were you just earlier this day?"

"I—um—" Jack stumbles over himself for a second before he manages out, "Bolivia?"

It's a rough estimate – because really, Jack can't remember when so many countries are so close, Boliva and Paraguay and Argentina and Brazil, just like Germany and the Swiss Confederation and Austria and Liechtenstein, and how can you tell apart such fine boundaries? – but North points to a South America, and Jack sees what he does.

The lights. They're bright and bold and _bountiful._

"When was last time there were so many right there?" North wonders, and Jack just stares, his jaw agape. "It is beautiful, is it not?"

It is. A laugh escapes Jack's lips, muffled but oh so real, and North exchanges a grin with Bunny that Jack does not see.

"You see," North says, patting Jack firmly on the shoulder once more, "sometimes, Jack, we must… make decisions. We must choose between right and wrong, and sometimes there is no such thing. It is nature of our work—and always will be."

Jack looks up at North – then to Bunny, who stands next to the older man and gives Jack a thumbs-up.

He's not quite sure what's happening—and then, when North's eyes meet Jack's, it hits him with the speed and strength of an oncoming train.

_He's staying._

Jack's spirits are lifted – for if neither North nor Bunny think any worse of him, then how evil could he be? And Jack laughs, and he grins, and the wind rushes around him in congratulations. Its friend is well again, and they can play together once more.

The Winter Prince lives on.

* * *

**Elsa's Notes**: I must give a HUGE thank you to the-guardian-of-fun over on tumblr for allowing me to use her wonderful AU in this oneshot! The ideas of Jack as the Winter Prince and the origin of the title both belong to her. _Please_ go pay her a visit. She's a wonderful artist, writer, and role-player. I would have linked you myself, but ff has a weird thing with links. You can check for it on our tumblr, which has a link on our profile!

(I may have brutally murdered her lovely story. She posted something recently with the "canon" of it and I had already almost finished this, so I neglected to read it for my own sake. I'm so terrible.)

This oneshot wasn't nearly as long as all the others I've done—you're welcome, mobile readers! (gives you all hugs and kisses) Remember, all of you who are reading are incredibly precious to me, whether you review or not!


	12. Subtle Fear

_12. Subtle Fear_

The thing is, Jack's pretty sure the Guardians aren't supposed to be so vulnerable to the weather and whims of Mother Nature. Actually, that was a pretty clear-and-positive _no—_even their respective homes had been protected against storms and seasonal changes, remaining untouched by whatever scourges would pass through the normal realm. So they should have no problem shielding themselves from the same tempests when out on the actual land, he had thought.

Yet it still comes as a rather violent surprise when, suddenly, while all of them are gathered in Kansas to deal with a particularly bad bout of Pitch's Nightmares, the large funnel cloud above aptly decides to release its churning beast.

They hardly see it coming—Jack, even more so, because he had been caught up in the battle—so when it's all falling apart, he doesn't have time to hear North's cry of, "_Jack! To the house! Now!_"

No—he's hardly even aware of anything wrong until he suddenly and roughly feels Bunnymund snatch him and jump into the ground, at the last second before the sky falls and into one of his holes—and then the next thing he knows, he's being deposited on the ground in the old, abandoned Warren that still remained as green and cheery as ever since Bunny had moved to the Tower.

The first thing he does, with his feet finally and properly under him after so unceremonious a dump, is to immediately turn to the pooka with startled frustration. "What was _that _for?"

But there's a startlingly frightened look in Bunny's eyes that Jack has never seen before, and it instantly drains whatever bubbling, short-lived anger he had in his system away at the sight, even as the Guardian of Hope puts on his "tough guy" act (Jack can see through it so clearly now, in this strange, strange moment), shoving a finger in his face as he says, "_Hey, _I just saved your life, _Frostbite."_

Then it deflates—it deflates—and suddenly, Jack is very aware something's wrong. It takes Bunnymund a split-second too long to reply with even more retorts, and Jack knows he has missed something—something important.

His eyes widen in realization. "Where are the others…?"

That clears the pooka's head, and he shakes it in befuddled awe, coming back to his senses and reality—the here and now. "Back there—in the house. You were the only one that didn't come; I had to think fast—"

"—so they're still out there in the storm?"

"_Twister,_ Jack," Bunnymund replies with forced ice, although there is no pain that lances the Winter Sprit. Only the shock as his mind finally catches up with the rest of time and he realizes what he has missed—what he hadn't noticed.

They had been in danger.

They _are_ still in danger—the others— "—Bunny, you have to get them. Bring them here—"

"—I _know_ that, Frostbite," the pooka retorts, cutting him off sharply. His eyes still hold something wild and uncertain in them—faintly surprised—as if in saving Jack, he had performed a rescue that he hadn't planned on being successful—on actually _working. _That shock, however, somehow manages to slip off, and without more hesitance, he spins around, his back of tattooed-fur the only thing Jack can see as he immediately stomps his foot and causes a hole to open up in the ground. "_Stay here—_I'll get them—"

—what? No. No, that wasn't negotiable. "I'm coming with you," the Winter Spirit demands, stepping forward.

"_No_—are you crazy? Don't make me have to keep track of you, too; it'd be easier if I could bring them over one at a time, so _stay put_—"

"—no—"

"—_Jack_, we are _not _going to argue about this. I'm _not _rescuing you only to put you in danger again. This isn't about being a _hero_, this is about being safe and protecting ourselves from something we actually _can't _fight against, okay? So _stay here_."

It isn't what he wants—in fact, it's everything _but _what he wants—but he can understand. He can…he can understand.

That doesn't mean, however, as he lets Bunny go, that he has to like it.

So he waits.

He sits right by the spot where Bunnymund had left him, clutching his staff tightly—too tightly—his hands start to ache and whine with overstraining the tiny muscles, but he can't bring himself to care, and he waits. His teeth grit hard in impatience, in worry, because it's taking too long, he can't help but think, but he waits, anyway. On and on until he's sure hours have passed—and that only feeds the writhing monster of concern and apprehension gnawing away at his insides.

And then—finally—the ground reopens, and out pops Bunnymund, breathless, dirty—a few gashes on his arm, nothing serious. Jack takes quick stock of it all, the monster inside humming in content—_good, good—_at the lack of abrasions but the wildness in his eyes is back, and before the Guardian of Fun can ask, the pooka is blurting, "It's over—the twister's passed—but we need your help."

Help? Why? What's wrong? What's happened? What took you so long? Why didn't you come for me sooner? Where is everyone else? Are they all right? Is anyone hurt?

"Of course," Jack can only bring himself to utter instead of the hundred billion questions his mind supplied with in response to such a demand.

Bunnymund nods, perhaps recognizing that same, frightened look in Jack's eye that his own pair was reflecting, and then without another word—a merciful act, he's sure, in order to shorten this time of agony from the unknown—the Spring Spirit dives down first into his hole that he had left open, Jack Frost jumping in soon after.

And when Jack finally climbs back to the surface, he's struck by how…_flat_ everything is.

The grass. The land. The few trees, limbs scattered about. Even the hou—

—crud.

The house.

"Don't tell me they're still in there…" Jack fears and warns, looking at the scattered, splintered wood and the caved in roof and buckled walls—at the _heap _of what looked to be an old, abandoned farmhouse—fortunate, really, too, that it was where it was in the large, grassland expanse of nowhere—because that meant no humans were nearby. No mortal casualties to worry about.

…right?

Bunnymund's silence does not support such an assertion.

Immediately, Jack feels cold dread weigh down his chest. "Don't tell me…" he begins to whisper, but doesn't finish, because he can't take standing and looking out over the grey-skied overhang and at the faded white building for another idle minute, so he takes off running.

"Jack, wait—!"

—_no, no, don't _tell _me to wait. Don't you dare freakin' tell me to wait and twiddle my thumbs for another second—_

—he doesn't stop. He doesn't stop running until he's there, and once he is, hands grasping the jagged edge from one of the ripped-apart walls, he heaves a sigh of relief as soon as he sees Sandy and Tooth—both relatively okay, but weak and tired.

So he asks just to make sure. "You two all right?"

Tooth winces at him, and it's then he realizes she's cradling her left arm. "Could be better," she murmurs, before shrugging with her good arm, smiling at him weakly. "My shoulder happened to get dislocated—a piece of the roof hit it at just the right angle. But wounds like ours don't last very long, anyway. So I'll be fine."

Jack's eyes scan her before he forces himself to nod. Then he looks at Sandy, who smiles and gives him a thumbs-up, spinning around in place to prove that he has been unharmed (although…Jack supposes being primarily composed of sand makes it relatively easy to come away unharmed from something like this; all the same he's relieved at the sight).

But that only accounts for four of their crew. The monster of worry starts up again, spurring into circular motion in his stomach as Jack asks, "Where's North…?"

At that, he sees to suddenly-grim faces of equal concern, and something is very, very wrong because North isn't the one who should be hard to find at all, really—and then he feels Bunnymund's paw on his shoulder, and turning to see the Spring Spirit, he hears the pooka murmur, "That's why I need your help, Kid."

Oh. "Is he okay?"

Bunnymund's mouth sets, rather solemn and determined—all the more unsettling thanks to the still-dark clouds above the wounded farmhouse.

After a bit of silence, he finally grunts, "He will be."

But that doesn't help. That doesn't stop the teething monster inside, working its way up to his clavicle in order to hang and dangle with ruthless agony. So Jack swallows harshly, trying to force the beast down on his own as Bunnymund leads him deeper into the house—and to a section near the back, where there is a large amount of roof and fallen wooden beams and floorboards from the second story—all asunder and piled above a very familiar and white-bearded spirit.

Jack starts in instinctive surprise and want to aid, but Bunnymund grasps his arm before he can get much closer, muttering instead into his ear, "We'll need to get it all off him. So you grab one end, and I'll grab the other, and we'll take it bit by bit. Okay?"

Yes.

"_Don't _freak out. It's going to be okay."

Yes, yes—he _knows_ this. He can see North, awake and but focused—his eyes are closed, brows furrowed—but despite being ones of pain, those are all good signs; he can understand them and their meaning, what they imply. North's going to be okay.

Bunnymund's hand tightens on his arm. "You got that? It's gonna be all right."

Jack jerks away, glaring roughly at the other Guardian. "I got it, already. Geez. What's the problem? Let's just hurry up and get out of here so we can go home."

Something in Bunnymund's eyes is doubting, but the pooka lets the boy escape his grasp anyway, and without any further distractions, they then get to work.

He's being put to use here, Jack knows, and while he doesn't understand why, suddenly the situation is so much easier to bear when he's working, when he's helping Bunnymund lift the broken pieces of wood and floor off of their friend. It's distracting, almost—but in a good way, the motion keeping him busy from board to floor, and floor to board, so his mind doesn't focus too much on the fact that North is fallen, and North is hurt and—

—and then North is free, and when he grins at them, it pains Jack because he can tell the fellow Winter Spirit is still hurting.

"You—you okay?" Jack asks first, resisting the urge to hug the man because he can understand why he's still lying down, still on his back. (He just hopes it's not his back that is the problem, that is hurt. Because that…that just almost sounds irreparable.)

North nods, grimacing as he continues to lie there on the ground for a moment more, taking deep breaths—his great chest rising and falling with the movements. "I'm all right, Jack. No need to worry."

But Jack already is.

* * *

It's a nightmare of the twister attacking and violently destroying Home and Everything Good that wakes Jack Frost up in the middle of the night, later that day.

And he sits there long after the quakes of the horrid aftermath have passed, stationary and trying to calm himself—to remind himself that no one was too hurt by the _real _storm that had passed through them earlier that day, due to North being…well, incredibly strong North and Tooth able to heal her joints rather quickly (they said her shoulder would be back to normal by the end of the week).

But still. That doesn' stop the images. The frightening thoughts and what-might-have-been's that plague him like bloodstained photographs.

He…he needs something to drink…

Swallowing in his dry throat, Jack picks himself up from his bed and pads across his cabin-room, into his winterland foyer and to the elevator, all the while making sure to take calm, composed breaths so as to get rid of that jittery, after-nightmare anxiety.

When the doors to the lift finally open, Jack steps inside, presses the button for the kitchens-level in Santoff Clausen and then crosses his arms over his chest, leaning against the side wall and resting his head against the cool metal as the doors close. Ellie gives a faint _ding_, and then begins her descent. Down 9…8…7…6…5…4…

…and then it comes to a halt.

On 4.

Not 3. Not where the kitchens were, and where there was going to be a _glass, _so he could get a _drink of water, _which is what he _wanted._

He gives Ellie a soft kick to the side when her doors open pointedly, revealing the hallway that lead down to North's personal chambers as he mutters, "Wrong floor, El," annoyed—but used to her antics by now. "I wanted 3. I'm _thirsty_."

_Ding._

She doesn't budge.

Jack sighs. "Oh, for the love of…" But he refrains from arguing. It's pointless. He knows it. So with a loud _huff, _so she knows _how much he doesn't want to do this_, Jack marches out of the lift and into the hallway, crossing his arms over his chest again once he is out, and pointedly pressing the button for Ellie once her doors have closed.

But she doesn't open them.

So he presses the button again, far more insistently this time.

Still nothing.

"Gosh _dang it, _Ellie!" Jack whines, letting his head fall forward and onto the closed steel doors. "I swear, I'll get you fixed! If you don't open this door, you'll be mindless by morning! I mean it! I will!"

She remains silent, unyielding.

Jack isn't amused.

"…fine. Whatever," he huffs again, turning around as he begins marching on down the hallway. "I'll go take the stairs if you're going to be this way."

But he never makes it. For while he is making his petulant stomp down the corridor, he comes upon the door that leads to North's room—and for whatever reason—be it a sudden memory of his nightmare, of the day's events, or just a sudden curiosity and worry amalgamation, Jack freezes at the sight of it, and comes to a stop.

And…wonders.

…_is he really okay?_

The young man frowns, lips pursed in thought. Thinking. Staring. Considering…

Finally, after a pause, he glances both ways down the hallway, before hurrying forward and sneaking inside. With as light of footsteps as he can make, he closes the door shut behind him with equal care, tip-toing silently into the bedroom and choosing a chair nearby the large Winter Spirit's bed on which he can sit comfortably and…affirm. Affirm that North really _is_okay; he's not suffering from another injury his mind made up in the realms of imagination that was probably stirred by Pitch.

He's…okay. Breathing in deep, caught in the realms of slumber. Whole, and in one piece. Bruised, sore, but okay.

Alive.

He sighs, hugging his knees to his chest, and continually…reassuring himself that the guy is all right. They're all all right. In the future, they probably wouldn't even remember this day at all. It'd be inconsequential.

But for now, they're all okay. They're all okay…and that was good. Yeah. Good.

Jack nods to himself, firming his mouth into a line.

They're okay…

* * *

"…see? Told you he'd come to North's room."

"Aw—but why? Poor kid almost looks like a forlorn pup…"

A sigh. "I _told _him not to freak out. But guess he still did."

"Think he was really that worried…?"

"It's hard to tell with Jack; I always tend to think he worries himself silly over us without ever letting it on. He's just like that, sometimes."

A soft giggle. "Like _you_, you mean."

"What? No—"

"—I bet when you told Jack not to freak, you were saying it to yourself, too."

"Pfft. Was not. You're totally off your rocker."

"No I'm not; I'm perfectly right. After all, you're both Guardians. It's your _job _to worry and protect. And when one of our own is hurt—you only worry more."

"That's crazy."

"No it's not. We're family; it's only natural—"

"—whatever you say, Tooth. I _don't _freak."

"Yes you do."

"No I don't…"

Softly, the door to North's room shut closed once again, letting the two slumbering Guardians within continue to dream on—one of them with a newly-acquired soft blanket now covering his small, balled frame, as if to stave away any more worry-born nightmares for the rest of the night.

* * *

**Crystal's Notes: **This has taken forever to actually get to, but here it is, Lovepuppy316! 8D I took your idea of a freak tornado attacking Home Base/Guardian's Homes…and I came up with this. 8D;;; Hopefully, it's not so vastly different than what you wanted! I took a little creative liberty, but I hope you enjoy! It's my first angsty/hurt/comfort oneshot for this series in a while! xD Haha! But again, I hope you've enjoyed all the same. :)

Thank you to everyone continuing to read, fave, bookmark, follow, and review this! :) You're all so amazing, as Elsa and I keep repeating, but we seriously love you. Don't be afraid to request any more ideas you may have, and we'll see what we can do about getting to them.

Thanks again, and have a wonderful day!


	13. Friend and Foe

_13. Friend and Foe_

"Jack?"

Pitch's expression in and of itself is enough to make Jack chuckle as he holds his injured arm. "Hey," Jack greets, shifting so that his staff becomes a bit easier to carry. His voice shakes a bit with the pain, but he tries not to let it bother him. "Can you lend me a hand?"

The Boogeyman doesn't look too happy. Jack could care less.

Pitch takes Jack by his wrist roughly – Jack winces, because Pitch's grip is rough and his nails dig into his skin, and it's almost enough to make Jack drop his staff – and Pitch leads him from the entrance to his hideout, drawing him further.

Jack realizes a moment later that perhaps this is a bad idea. Perhaps when Pitch made that offer, all the way back when Jack was still on the verge of starvation, he had not made it wholeheartedly. Jack should have thought this through a bit more, but it's too late to back out of it now.

As they walk, they come to a long, narrow bridge, and Jack sees that he had never truly _looked_ at the great maw below them. There lie thousands upon thousands of Fearlings, all creeping up to their level and reaching for him, moving in one mass but at the same time as separate entities, and all he can see are their beady, greedy, yellow eyes, and as he's staring to his left he neglects to notice that one to his right snatches at his foot, and in that one moment Jack is overwhelmed—

_North hurt_ no_ she'll never forgive you_ no _her wrists arms legs bloody cut by her own hand_ oh god _Bunny staring at him "we should never have trusted you"_ no _the snow was too much look at all of the children gone and lost and so dead_ but _Sandy done in by the nightmare sand it's all over he's never coming back _NO!—

"Snap out of it."

The four words do just as they intend; Jack blinks and he's back in Pitch's cavern, though he's against a wall on some sort of bed, and Pitch has some crushed black matter between his hands.

…Is—is that a Fearling?

"What happened to you?" Pitch demands, gesturing to Jack's injured shoulder. "I was under the impression that the Guardians would not have let you leave a battle in such a condition."

Jack glances around; his staff rests, in one piece, leaning against the wall just next to the bed. He lets out a breath of relief, before he winces and tries to explain.

"I don't really understand it myself," he mutters, and when he glances at his arm again it seems the wound is larger than he remembers. The blood has soaked through his hoodie, much to his chagrin; it's useless now. "All I remember is that I was visiting my old pond, icing it over again to make sure it's thick enough for the kids to skate on if they want to, and suddenly one of your Nightmares appeared out of nowhere and charged me. It caught me totally by surprise."

Pitch frowns, his eyes on the wound now. "…I don't suppose that it got you with its horn, did it?"

"Huh? Yeah," Jack replies, blinking. "That's exactly what happened, some sort of nightmare sand beam or something. Why?"

Pitch curses under his breath and moves away from him, to the cupboard nearby, and Jack sees that the Fearling that was in his hand has dissipated now. How… how odd.

"No wonder you're here and not with the other Guardians," Pitch grumbles as he fetches a jar of powder, walking back to him. "The sand's infested you, Frost. You're senile."

Jack bursts into laughter, shaking his head. "I'm not _senile!"_ he says, grinning up at the King of Nightmares. "You were just closer than they were! Honestly, it's not that I—hey!"

Pitch ignores what Jack's saying, instead forcing the hoodie from his body, leaving him topless. "Yes, you are, or else you'd have removed that already so that I could tend to your wound." Jack pouts but otherwise says nothing, allowing Pitch to examine it.

"This will sting," Pitch says under his breath; Jack almost has the chance to inquire as to what, but before he can, Pitch opens the jar and reaches in, sprinkling some of the golden powder across his wound.

Jack lets out a grunt of pain, his hand on the opposite arm immediately clenching the wound. Pitch slaps the hand away, an impatient look on his face. "Let the dust do its job."

'Dust' is an interesting word for it, and Jack cranes his neck to try to get a better look at the injury. His brow furrows as he watches the golden particles filter through the blood and through the darkness, but within moments both gold and black are gone—exterminated.

When Jack looks back up at Pitch, the man's retrieved a bandage, and he slaps it over Jack's room with no pretense of gentility. Jack grits his teeth as he suffers the sting, but after that, it's over. The pain has vanished.

But in its place, Jack is overwhelmed by an intense wave of exhaustion. His head lolls, his vision spinning, and it becomes hard to concentrate on what Pitch is saying.

"…'re weak," Pitch goes on, and he may or may not be sneering. "The Nightmare's… food, that's what you'll… right back."

Then Jack can't see Pitch anymore, but rather than trying to figure out where he's gone, Jack just groans and slips onto the bed, not even caring that his wound is facing the mattress. He doesn't have the energy to think about this too much.

_Rest,_ his body is demanding of him—and so he does.

* * *

Pitch is almost infuriated. He's tried so hard to round up any and all rogue Nightmares and Fearlings, dissipating his nightmare sand whenever he's not using it, calling all of them back, silencing the spikes of Fear that he did not command into existence.

And look at what all of that had gotten him: Jack, useless, lying in the room Pitch had forsaken until this point, and now he's being forced to conjure some sort of sustenance for the boy. Once, he'd been powerful and respected; where is that now?

That isn't nearly all that's bothering him, though. There is, of course, the fact that the room Jack is using is stirring up old, forgotten memories—ones that he'd prefer to stay forgotten.

Perhaps it'd be best if he contacts the other Guardians. Of course, up until this point, Pitch has had to do so in person, but at the moment he can't afford to leave Jack alone. If the Fearlings got to him while he was gone, there would be hell to pay.

So instead, Pitch creates a Nightmare—one that, he's sure, will prove obedient and faithful to the last. He sends it off without a word, knowing that it understands its mission just as he does:

Find the nearest Guardian, and bring them here.

Of course, as Pitch is preparing the solution Jack will require to heal efficiently – for, although he is a Guardian and can heal quickly, Pitch would prefer Jack leave as soon as possible – he does not quite realize just who the Nightmare summons. If he had, perhaps Pitch might have clarified his instructions.

Ah, well. It's too late for regrets.

* * *

"What the bloody hell are you—oi! Let go of me, ya godforsaken brumby!"

Bunnymund is not an evening person. He missed over three hours of sleep the night before, and although he'd been out studying New York to see what the most recent fashions were (as they always seemed to inspire new designs for his eggs), he'd also intended to head to the New Warren at the Pole earlier than he usually did.

When he's been harassed by a Nightmare and physically dragged to Pitch's domain, he's not in any mood to play.

"Oi!" Bunny calls, still trying to shake off the Nightmare; he'd attempted to use his boomerang on it before, but the thing had dodged it so easily. Pitch must be teaching them to be smarter. "Hey, Pitch, what d'ya want?! It's too late for this!"

Pitch appears before him from the shadows along the floor; Bunny yelps in surprise. "You don't need to yell," he hisses, and he seems irritated—which only serves to irritate Bunny further, given that it had been _Pitch_ that called _him_ here.

"All right, fine." Bunny crosses his arms and cocks an eyebrow. "Then are you gonna' tell me what it is I'm doin' here?"

Pitch's gaze is silent but strong, the scowl on his face matching Bunny's, before he turns and walks. There's a silent 'follow me' implied in his gait, and though Bunny hates to be so compliant, he does, grumbling all the while.

Pitch leads Bunny through several halls, all filled with Fearlings that creep in the shadows but seem to know better than to approach the Pooka – something that he's more than grateful for.

They come to a door that Bunny doesn't see at first, and when he opens it, Bunny's more than startled at what he sees. It's so much _color,_ quite the contrast to the rest of Pitch's lair; bright blues and greens and purple hues shape the walls and the furniture of the room—a bedroom, it looks like, as if for a young girl.

Pitch ignores the way Bunny's eyes dissect the room and instead nods towards the bed, and it's then that Bunny sees Jack. It's odd, though; what happened to Jack's jacket? What is this black shirt that he's wearing? And those bandages—

"What happened?" Bunny asks as he turns to Pitch. Pitch shrugs.

"He showed up on my doorstep, and he was injured." Pitch scoffs. "Consider this a sign of my change of heart, rabbit. If you and your friends would treat me with a bit more respect after this, I'd consider this favor repaid."

_Respect_? Bunny almost laughs when he examines Jack, because he seems paler than he usually does (though, from putting a hand to Jack's forehead, Bunny has realized he doesn't actually know how to tell if Jack is colder than usual or not), and Pitch might have done something worse to him.

But when Bunny turns back to make a comment, Pitch has gone. Vanished. Just like that, and without really answering any of Bunny's questions. What happened to Jack, anyway, to get him hurt like this?

Bunny shakes his head as he picks the boy up, careful to support his neck. Whatever the case may be, Jack needs to be taken back to Santoff Claussen; and so, with a sigh, he heads out of the lair, careful not to step on anything that looks alive as he does.

* * *

"What has happened?!"

North's call is frantic as he rushes to the door, almost as if expecting them. Bunny holds out the boy, letting North examine him, and then North shouts, "To the top!" and spins around, almost gallivanting off. Bunny hurries after him as quick as he can, entering the elevator with him.

"What happened?" North asks again as the elevator begins to ascend. "Is he all right?"

"Beats me," Bunny replies, and his ears droop. "It's a long story, mate, and I don't even know the half of it."

North nods, a solemn expression on his face. When Ellie announces, "Floor seven," gives a small little _ding_ as she opens the doors, and Tooth flutters over to see what's brought them there, North looks like he wants to punch something.

Bunny groans, earning a confused glance from Tooth. "It's gonna' be a long night, mate."

* * *

"_What's wrong? Is she okay? How did it happen?"_

"_Kozzy!" the young woman scowled at him, putting a finger to her lips. "Hush. Sera just got to sleep after all that."_

_Kozmotis went to his wife's side and took her hand, anxiety eating at his stomach. It was eleven o'clock—only _now_? "So she's okay?" he whispered, brushing a stray strand of hair out of his daughter's face._

_His wife laughed, though it was a gentle sound and he wasn't quite sure what it was she found amusing, and nodded. "Yes—though the person who did this to her wasn't so lucky. Tsar Lunaoff's granted him more than ten years of jail-time for assaulting a child."_

_There was something smug in her voice that told Kozmotis just who had been the one to instigate that decision. He chuckled and kissed her. "That's my girl," he said with a proud grin. "Just as fierce a warrior as the day we first met." Then he turned back to Sera. "…She is a strong girl."_

"_She is," his wife agreed. "And the day she succeeds you will be a great one."_

_Now that he was aware his daughter was safe, Kozmotis encouraged his wife to go to bed and rest—for she had endured the brunt of Sera's troubles. He would stay by his daughter's bedside in her stead._

_When she awoke, she couldn't help but giggle at the image of her father sleeping with his head against the mattress. "Oh, daddy," she said, softly, so as not to wake him._

_She glanced up to see a nightmarish, dark matter dancing about the room, and she gasped in shock—but just as quickly as it was there, it wasn't._

_She frowned. There would be more of them here soon._

* * *

When Jack awakes, he can't help but snicker at the image of a certain winter spirit sleeping with his head against the mattress. "Oh, North," he says, softly, so as not to wake him.

He glances up to see the Sandman's golden dust still filtering about the room, and he gasps in delight—but just as quickly as it is there, it isn't.

He smirks. The others will be here soon.

Gosh, what happened to him? He furrows his brow and scratches his head—where'd he get this shirt from, anyway? It's way too big for him and definitely not his color, it makes him look _paler _than he already is—and then there it is, flashing through his mind as though he were witnessing a grenade go off.

And he's left with this emptying sense of 'Oh. Right.'

What now? When Bunny, Tooth, and Sandy burst into the room, having been made aware of Jack's awakening by the severing of Sandy's Dreamsand, and they wake up North in the process, Jack can't help but laugh.

He explains to all of them as well as he can how he came into Pitch's care—how some of the Nightmares are disobeying Pitch and that it's not Pitch's fault, and they should report any that they find directly to him—and how Pitch took such care of him. "Almost like he's done it before," he comments, and the others exchange a look that he doesn't know how to interpret.

When he's finished, Bunny puts a hand on Jack's shoulder. "Well, at least you're back with us now," he says. "We'll have to think of a way to thank Pitch for this."

"Oh!" Tooth's eyes light up. "Why don't we ask Mother Nature? I'm sure Pitch misses her, maybe we can get them to make up—"

"Out of the question," North interrupts, and Sandy nods in silent agreement with him. "Mother Nature is not the most… _sympathetic_ of spirits. She may get angry with us for trying to interfere."

Jack glances about the room, searching for the answer, but when no one attempts to give it to him, he clears his throat to get their attention. "Hey," he says, and they acknowledge that he has the floor. "Someone want to explain to me how Pitch knows Mother Nature?"

There's a moment of silence, and then Tooth sighs. "Jack," she says, "Mother Nature is his _daughter._ The Man in the Moon's father chose her after Pitch…"

She trails off, looking away. "After he became Pitch," North finishes for her. She smiles gratefully at him.

"Wait—what does that mean?" Jack furrows his brow and scratches his head. "And the Man in the Moon has a father? How come I've never met him? And what's this about—"

"I think that's enough questions for one day, Jack," Bunny cuts him off with a stern look. "Get some rest, a'ight? We need you to be workin' again by tomorrow."

Jack groans and stuffs his head into his pillow. "I know, I _know,_" he says, sounding irritated. "Stupid job."

Tooth shakes her head, a small grin of amusement on her face. "Good night, Jack," and she leads the others out.

Jack sighs and snuggles beneath the freezing coves. What a day… If only—

If only Pitch could know how _grateful_ he was.

* * *

If only Sera could know how _sorry_ he was!

Pitch bites back a cry as he sits with his head between his knees, the memories coming all too quick and all too much, and all he can think is _where is she, where is she?_ as the Fearlings swallow him, lathering him in a fear that he had long forgotten.

The fear of love. The fear of losing it. The fear that came with having lost it already. It consumes him now just as it had ages and eras ago.

Why? Because of _Jack?_ The boy means nothing to him, _nothing!_ So why are these memories clawing their way from what humanity remained within his cold and barren heart?

"You look pathetic."

He lifts his head, peering out at the person who appeared in his lair without his knowing—and his eyes widen.

"Sera," he breathes, mystified and relieved and terrified all at once.

She scowls at him, the wind and earth and water and burning flame surrounding her coming to a stop. "That stopped being my name a long time ago," she says with hostility thick in her voice. "Just as yours is no longer Kozmotis Pitchiner—isn't that right, Black?"

He should feel angry at that remark, he supposes. He should be upset that after so long of silence and being ignored, she's only come now to mock him. If the human part of him still wants to be wholly human, then it would make sense.

But he's not. So the look he gives her is a blank one.

"A little bird told me what you did for that Frost boy." She crosses her arms. "Why? Have you changed?"

"No," he replies, and as he stands he dusts the Fearlings off of himself. "I haven't. I made him an offer that I began to regret making when he kept me to my word. What is it, exactly, that you're here for?"

She examines him with a curious and skeptical look in her eye, before she sighs and turns, the elements picking up again. "I should not have come," she says. "May you realize your center soon, Black; for all the years of your pitiful existence, you are the closest to it that you've ever been."

And then she's gone. Just like that.

Pitch stares after her for a moment more, longing for something that might have once been or perhaps never was, and then he snaps himself out of it. What is he doing? He has _work_ to do. He can't afford to flounder around, pondering on something _she_ said.

…

He smiles despite himself. She looked at him. _Talked_ to him. It's a step in the right direction.

There may be hope for them yet.

* * *

**Elsa's Note**: Ahh… This was a request of FrostFan's. I don't know if this is what you wanted and I didn't really intend to have it focus on Pitch and Mother Nature, but um, I had fun with it and I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did? Despite the fact it's not very Jackrabbit-y in friendship or romance? Hopefully? (/hides in corner and cries)

In other news… I've got a plot bunny for your request too, ThatOneFan! Oh gosh, you requested it such a long time ago; I'm terribly sorry that you've been waiting for it for so long! ;A; I promise it's being worked on!

[Side note: Everyone is welcome to request what they want via the review function. As some of our other fans have discovered, it may take us a while to get to your idea (which I can't apologize enough for, ThatOneFan!), but we will do our best! Keep in mind that we like to keep couples somewhat ambiguous, so shipping requests will be done so that they can be interpreted in multiple ways, kind of like how we've been doing Sweet Tooth so far.]

Anyway, with that PSA wrapped up… Please review, dearies! I adore you all! (/heart)


	14. Not Whole and Perfect

_14. Not Whole and Perfect_

Jack stares at the sweatshirt lying across his bed, fists clenching and unclenching at his side for a long time as he battles up and down the heaving breaths in his chest. He tosses his face back to the ceiling, breathing in—and then out—and in—and then out, before he finally shakes his head.

_Stupid. _He stifles the bitter chuckle that wants to escape him._ It's all so _stupid.

But he still doesn't want it.

No, it doesn't matter that it's blue. It doesn't matter whatever thought the man had behind it—it doesn't even matter that North had placed it there _before…_their…their _argument_—and it doesn't even matter that it's exactly like the one he's always had and always worn for the longest time ever since the twenty-first century, so he's actually really itching to put it on again—

—it's the fact that it's screaming _North_ right now, while he's not very…while they're not really on any speaking terms right now—not after earlier today—that he just wants to ignore it. That he just wants to…

…wants to…

…wants to what?

_I don't know—anything. Anything but just stand here right now one second longer._

So with a decisive last shake of his head, Jack sets his mouth and reaches out with one hand for his staff as the other yanks back to pull over his hood—

—oh.

Jack glares at the sweatshirt one last time, perhaps even more heatedly than before—that offending thing and the association it has with him right now that he'd rather not think about or whatever—as he then clenches his staff to himself harder, turns, and marches out of his room.

The others who see him leave Santoff Clausen say nothing to him about his departure. They just watch him go with sad, clouded eyes, and words on their lips that die before they muster the confidence to actually say them.

* * *

"_Jack! What were you thinking?!"_

"_Y'know. A simple 'thank you,' would suffice."_

"_You could have gotten yourself—"_

"—_oh, please. It wasn't _that _bad—"_

"—_oh-h-h yes. It is. It is _far _more bad than you think—"_

"—_how so? As I see it, it worked. So we're fine."_

"No we're not!"

* * *

He doesn't know what he's doing when he stops, really. Winter doesn't even belong in this part of Chicago at this time of year; in fact, winter doesn't even belong most anywhere on this side of the world. He, being himself, knows this avidly well. In fact, what with the warm weather lately, Jack's surprised he can even tolerate being huddled there in one of the inner-city's musky and damp alleyways. He should be feeling sick or something. Maybe.

But he doesn't. Or at least, maybe he doesn't realize it because he's still boiling a bit inside. Whatever it might be.

What remains is that he doesn't know what he's doing, but he stays there anyway, leaning against the wall with his hands shoved in his pants pockets, head bowed as he replays over and over again the events from earlier that day—and in particular, the words shouted over roaring ears and flustered-red faces.

He doesn't realize it as he's recalling this, with disembodied voices echoing around in his cranium, but he's been staring for a really long time at the leather-jacketed back of this older teenager across the street.

And Jack doesn't realize it until the kid starts to move away, but the young man has been standing there for an awfully long while, just staring through the window and at the expensive vases inside.

Which…doesn't look quite like the kind he can afford…

_...oh._

The conclusion snaps into place far faster than he can put it into words, and before he knows what he's doing, Jack's curious and has found himself starting for the teenager. He doesn't know why; it isn't the first time he's caught a thief about to make a bust, but he's…intrigued, anyway.

He darts around the other people on the crowded sidewalk—although it strikes him as strange that there are still so many people out and about at night—they all manage to squeal and giggle at the sudden bout of "Chicago wind" that has blustered by them and flung their hair to and fro—Jack just smirks at this, and manages to slip into place behind the taller male, trailing him quietly. Almost happily, really—because now his mind has something else to focus on rather than…_today._

_Are you going to steal it, kid? _he can't help but think. _Why? What use do you have for a vase? Or two?_

The teenager takes a sudden left into another alleyway, and Jack follows him without thinking. When he takes another right, out onto another main street, and then crosses the road—the winter spirit remains with him, if only for distraction's sake.

* * *

"_North, I don't understand what the big deal is—"_

"—_it was _dangerous, _Jack—"_

"—_you think I didn't know that?"_

"_I _think _you didn't know how _we _felt about that."_

* * *

It's when the kid finally comes to a stop in another alleyway, and bends over, pulling up a cardboard box that had been sitting against a dark, rusty-red wall, that Jack becomes aware that no, this kid isn't actually going to _steal _anything.

_He's…going to replicate it…?_

He stares uncomprehendingly for several moments at the roughly-glued-and-taped together vase that the box had been concealing, face scrunching in confusion. The teenager, however, has no qualms with it. Pulling off his light jacket and rolling up his sleeves, he bends over to the vase, picks up a paintbrush and paint that the box had also kept hidden, and begins his work.

It's the strangest thing, and Jack doesn't know why he stays. He doesn't know why he leans against the wall and actually _watches _the teenager at work—but something about it is fascinating.

The little bristles, all soaked in color, brushing over cracks and ridges from the hasty healing—it doesn't make the entire surface look smooth and unblemished, like Jack had thought it would—it doesn't try to "even" anything out and make the vase look perfect again. In fact, the solid soft brown he's painting the vase actually _brings out_ the lines of fracture and stress. It strains the entire thing, and Jack's confused—he doesn't understand—until the boy brings out another color, and as soon as the brown coat is finished drying, begins covering the lines of fracture with a stem-green, like vines crawling over an old house.

This time, Jack pulls closer and squats beside the boy who doesn't see him, watching up close the art at work. He's almost hypnotized by the effect the boy's brushwork has—and something about it—about the entire thing—about _using_ the mistakes and the fissures to create something _beautiful_—seems somehow far more valuable than any smooth-surfaced porcelain the shop several blocks away tried to sell.

_This one's telling a story._

* * *

"_Not to be calloused or anything—but what does that matter? I had to do what I had to do—I don't understand why you're so angry—"_

"_What does that—does—_Jack. _Do you _really _have no idea?"_

"_No idea about what? Because as far as I see it, you're all being paranoid and frankly, annoying. It turned out all right in the end, didn't it?"_

"That's not the point! _The point is you had _no _regard for yourself!"_

"_But—"_

"—_and you know, it hurts that you apparently don't think you're worth trying to protect!"_

"_What is this? 'Make Jack feel guilty because he tried to be a hero' day?"_

"_Jack, do not try to—_"

"_Because that's sure what it feels like right now. Can't you all just appreciate what I did?"_

"_We would if we hadn't almost _lost _you!"_

* * *

Jack pulls away sharply when the boy is finally finished—the once-broken vase somehow transformed into something elegant and flowery and breathtaking—something with texture and love that you could feel underneath your fingertips—and he watches as the young man grins with relief, before reaching out and cradling the fragile thing close.

Then, after stuffing his paints and other tools away under his cardboard box again, the teenager sets off down the dark alleyway once more.

Jack doesn't know why, but he follows yet again.

* * *

"_Why do you care?! Why does _anyone _care? It's like not you're my actual family—"_

"—_Jack—"_

"—_and it's _not _like you're my actual _father, _North!"_

_Silence._

"_I'm _tired _of being treated like a child—like every move I make to actually _protect _you guys is wrong—like I'm just _not thinking enough _when _clearly _I am—"_

"—_Jack—"_

"—no! _Don't—don't say a thing, because I'm so…_done _right now."_

_Braced silence._

_Jack scoffs. "You know what? Forget you guys. All of you."_

_But the glare he sends North's way is the harshest as he marches off._

* * *

A knock on a seemingly-random door surrounded on either side by several others in a run-down Chicago duplex.

The woman who opens it is short and warm, round, large and beautiful but her eyes are wet as if she's been crying for a long time. Her stringy dark hair is pulled up hastily behind her head, small strands sticking out at odd angles, but nothing about her seems anything less than soft—or anything less than extraordinary.

It's the way her entire face melts in relief as soon as she sees the boy on her doorstep that reveals to Jack her identity.

Not that the teenager's words then do it in for him, too.

"Happy—Happy Father's Day, Mom."

New tears spill forth from the shaking blue eyes of the woman as she shakes her head, lips pressed together for a brief moment before she mutters, "Oh, but, dear—"

"—I don't…I don't care what anyone else says. You've been both a mom and a dad to me ever since that jerk left, and that's…that's all that matters right now, okay?" The teenager's voice sounds awkward, as if he doesn't like saying these things out loud—but wants to anyway—because this is important. Because this is so very important—that even imperfection can still be _good. _"It's all that matters—I don't care…I just…"

Then the boy lowers his head, and his voice is very small.

"…I just want you to know that I'm _sorry…_"

The woman's entire form shakes, and she reaches out with pudgy arms for her dear son and pulls him close and, "Oh, Eli—"

—Jack suddenly decides that that's the perfect time to go.

* * *

In the end, it's not that he and that teenager have a lot in common—because in fact, they don't. They're situations are actually quite completely different, after all. And it's not as if his artwork had spoken to him on some level—although it certainly _was…_powerful.

No. To be honest, it's not…anything else other than two simple things he had heard that strike him hardest.

Happy Father's Day.

And…

* * *

"I'm sorry."

North looks up from what he's working on, leaning over his desk. He looks very startled, with his wide eyes and his raised eyebrows, as if he hadn't been expecting this at all, and something in Jack is immediately afraid that this is the wrong moment to say this—that this is wrong moment to come back and try to sort things out—but he's feeling a bit…off, anyway. As if he can't function unless he gets this right.

He's a cog at the wrong angle, tick-ticking relentlessly against his other pieces and expecting them to conform or still work with him when really _he's_ the one who needs to adjust. Just slightly—just so that they can work cohesively again.

North straightens and looks at him oddly. "Jack…"

There's an awkward silence for a moment as both try to reconcile words said so heatedly and without thought.

Jack abruptly bows his head. "I, um…I saw this kid…"

"…Jack…" North's voice is apprehensive, as if he knows exactly what the fellow winter spirit is trying to do.

"…he, um…he did something cool for his mom, y'know…?"

"Jack, you don't have to—"

"No—no. It's not that. It's just that…" The boy sighed, raising a hand to tussle through his hair. "…they weren't…_perfect_. And it wasn't…it wasn't _ideal._ But he…he gave her a present on Father's Day—today—and…" Face scrunching up in thought, he then added more quietly, as if this was most important, "…it meant something—because they...they both still cared for each other, were willing to make what was wrong _work._ Sometimes fixing it, sometimes twisting it...y'know?"

There was another soft silence that blanketed the in-between. It acted as the glue between porcelain pieces, sticking them together and holding them there as the healing began.

North softened just slightly. "Jack…it wasn't that you were trying to protect us."

"I know," came the quiet whisper. The winter guardian didn't realize it, but by this point he had brought his staff in front of him, clenching it tightly and resting his forehead against it as if to hide. The parts were hewn together, now. Paint was beginning to seal it shut.

The Guardian of Wonder stepped forward. "But all the same, I…I should not have shouted."

Jack's mouth stretches at the sides. The first coat is done.

Silence blankets them again.

Delicate brushstrokes finally begin to use the marrs on their surface to create something beautiful out of all their mistakes.

"…though I see you liked my sweatshirt."

"Oh—um. Yeah. Thanks for that."

"Am I forgiven, then?"

Jack smiles, lifting his head from his staff finally as their own vase is back. Not whole and perfect, but somehow, perhaps better. "Everytime."

North grins back.

* * *

**Crystal's Notes: **_It's finally updated. _;A; And just in time for Father's Day, too, this weekend! So enjoy! And do dote upon whomever is the father figure in your life-whether it be your actual father or someone else-because it's always better to say more "thank you's" than "forget you's." x3 (I know, I know, I'm cheesy. Forgive me. It's like, midnight here right now. I'm tired.)

So I hope you enjoyed! And have a wonderful Father's Day weekend! x3


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